Forbidden Threads
by SisiDraig - 2
Summary: What if Chandler and Kent were in a relationship throughout the entire series and were simply keeping it hidden from the rest of the team AND US? This fic fills in a load of "missing scenes" (threads) detailing the secret relationship between Kent and Chandler which might have existed between the cannon. (1 CHAPTER PER EPISODE)
1. Series 1: Episode 1

_A/N: So, I've just stumbled across the box set of Whitechapel and, let's be honest, DC Emmerson Kent is basically a fan girl dream! Quirky good looks, awesome cheekbones, and a definite (and adorable) crush on his boss … perfection. Naturally, fanficcing followed and this is the result._

 _A/N 2:_ **ALL SPEECH IN BOLD IS TAKEN DIRECTLY FROM THE SHOW.**

 _D/C: Did the message from Chandler's deceased father read "Give Kent a chance"? No it did not. Therefore, I am quite clearly not the owner of Whitechapel or any associated characters._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 _ **Set in and around the time the team discover Kathy's body (aka the first meeting).**_

Kent was only vaguely aware that his sergeant had arrived at the police van with another man, though he did notice a few things about the man: one, he was tall; two, he smelt like soap and expensive, fragrance; and three, he was well spoken. He might even have been handsome in a different light, and different circumstances. In short, this new man was nothing like the Skip and Kent welcomed a little change. He seemed like the kind of man Kent could aspire to be.

Emmerson Kent was never going to be like DS Ray Miles, never could be, and never really wanted to be. It wasn't in Kent's nature to be rough and ready. He'd rather be tall, smell like soap and expensive fragrance, and well-spoken. Besides, there was something undeniably attractive about a man in a good suit and tie.

::

'Talk me through the team,' Chandler ordered as they drove from the murder scene to the butchers. He'd remembered from his courses that it was important to state your authority early. He needed to reiterate that this was his was his investigation. It was already clear that Miles was going to be a challenge; he had, after all, insisted they take his car.

Miles balked at the command, but seemed to know his place enough to let it go.

'First you got DC Fitzgerald. Fitz for short; good man, good copper, been at my side a long time. He don't take any nonsense but this is a rough part of London, you can't read a book about the mean cold streets.' Chandler didn't miss the dig, but he did choose to ignore it. 'You got a job, Fitz'll get it done. Don't expect him to get a round in mind you, he'd rather chuck his Mrs. under a bus than dip his hand in his pocket.'

'Right,' Chandler did his best to take the opinion and nonsense out of the statement. He wanted hard facts. He wanted to know where each of his team's talents lay, not which one was most likely to pick up a bar tab.

'DS Sanders. Now, he's not the brightest of the bunch. Don't ask him to read anything whatever you do. But he's an all-round good guy, likes a laugh but who doesn't; it's what stops us going mad. He always stops off to get coffees on the way to any crime scene so best let him know your usual.' Miles glanced sideways at Chandler and mused: 'Probably some kind la-di-da Latte, is it?'

'I prefer tea.' Chandler replied curtly.

'Well, good,' Miles huffed, as though his whole night had been thrown off by the fact Chandler's regular coffee order wasn't something like "Mocha Latter with skimmed soya milk". He flicked the indicator up to show he was turning right, and continued with the team debrief: 'Then you've got McCormack. Again, good bloke. Scottish, but some poor bastard has to be,' Miles cackled a bit at his own joke. Chandler didn't. 'Solid as a rock, good family man. You got kids, Chandler?'

'No.'

'No, don't suppose you have.' Something about the way Miles made the comment told Chandler there was more to it somehow, like he was insinuating rather than commenting but Chandler let it slide and instead asked:

'Who was the one taking the statement from the witness?'

'Ah, DC Kent. He's a good kid; hard-working, loyal, diligent. He takes some stick off the others but he's young and a bit … naive. He's a note-taker, likes to have everything laid out in front of him, all neat and particular. If you get a bit bored during the investigation, you can hide his notebook. Winds him right up, poor sod … gives the rest of the team a laugh too.'

'I have no intention of winding up any member of the team.'

''course not,' Miles scoffed. 'Not in the DI handbook, I'm sure.'

There's a silence that begins to stretch between them and there's nothing in the car to distract them from it except the rhythmic flashing of orange street lamps and the low hum of the engine. Eventually, to break the oppression of the silence, Miles mutters:

'You'd probably like Kent…. He drinks a crappuccino.'

* * *

 _ **Set whilst Miles and Chandler interview Rob Lees.**_

It was odd having Fitz sat behind the glass with them, but Kent couldn't help think it was where the man belonged. Whilst the skipper was heading up investigations, Fitz had been the golden boy of the team and he was bitter about his sudden demotion to slumming it in the viewing room.

It was only right. Chandler was the DI, and besides, Chandler looked better in that chair than Fitz did. He wore a sharp suit and serious expression. He looked like he could solve a crime without thinking. He looked like a real Inspector, like the kind you might see on the TV.

'Close your mouth, kid,' McCormack chuckled, nudging Kent on the shoulder. 'You'll drool.'

' **I've got a ten copper alibi** ,' Lees laughed in the interview room and in one fell swoop threw the entire investigation straight down the toilet, throwing them into the relatively unfamiliar territory of a murder mystery. It wasn't often that Miles' first hunch wasn't correct, and the sergeant looked furious that that seemed to be the case this time.

'Well, that's that then,' Fitz groaned, getting to his feet and smacking Kent across the head for his troubles. 'Skip is not gonna be pleased with this outcome. Look busy, let's move out.'

'Who made you king?' Kent muttered under his breath.

'You did, princess,' Fitz chuckled leading the rabble out of the room. Kent looked around as though hoping for some kind of back up all he got was Sanders holding a bag towards him and a polite:

'Crisp?'

* * *

 _ **Set in and around the chalk scene.**_

' **You haven't had a chance to know him** ,' Kent said as the team badmouthed the DI. It wasn't in the job description as detectives to jump to conclusions, but the team were suppressing that part of their nature in favour of bad jokes and a refusal to leave their comfortable status quo: the elastic band shooting past Kent's face straight from Sander's hand was testament to that.

Still, Skip knew how to treat them. He knew how to tame the rabble and get them working efficiently. It was just bad timing that once he'd set out his plan, DI Chandler came in stating the same thing but with fancier words and a haughtier attitude. Still, he'd asked for chalk and Kent had been forced to follow his own advice about giving the DI a chance and rose to his feet to fetch the chalk from a draw. Even before he tripped over Fitz's outstretched leg, he knew it was an action he'd pay for heavily later.

Still, the DI had asked him his name, and Kent had had another chance to breath in the smell of him, so it wasn't all for nothing.

'What'd you do that for?' Sanders demanded, kicking him hard under the desk. Kent shot him a "shut up" and turned away. He did not need to be reprimanded by the idiot who'd just called him a "teacher's pet".

Ultimately, in the final stand-off, it had been the skipper who'd won and despite a few mouthed apologies, Kent hadn't made any real effort to stand up for the new man in the office. He certainly hadn't stayed when Fitz had called him.

'You're bloody soft, you,' Sanders was shaking his head when Kent caught up with the group.

'I just didn't fancy sitting there all night waiting for someone to get the bloody chalk,' Kent shrugged as though it wasn't a big deal.

'Traitor, that's what you are,' Fitz muttered, punching him hard on the shoulder.

'Ah, leave the wee lad alone,' McCormack came surprisingly to his aid. 'He's got a tough job.'

'I do?'/ 'He does?'

'Do you know how hard it is to kiss every DI's arse in the station and still get any work done?' The rest of the group roared and Kent was left feigning laughter and muttering sarcastic "Very funny"s at every poor joke for the rest of the night.

They'd been at the pub for over an hour before Miles finally put a stop (of sorts) to the ridiculing.

'Go on Mrs. Chandler, get a round in,' Fitz had said, tapping Kent on the shoulder. Kent had rolled his eyes for what felt like the millionth time but he still made his way to the bar. He strained his ears to overhear their continued gossip but all he heard was Miles' warning:

'Now, when he gets back, no more "teacher's pet" jokes, right?'

'Aww, Skip.'

'I mean it. Besides, there're plenty of other reasons to take the piss out of Kent. Jesus, the kid rides a bicycle, drinks a cappuccino in the morning, and his given name in Emmerson. We can be more inventive than this, ladies.'

It wasn't much but it was something, Kent supposed.

'What can I get you, handsome?' the barmaid asked.

'Five pints, please.'

::

Chandler stared at the chalkboard. It was basically blank save for a grid he'd created in meticulous detail. In the absence of any kind of ruler, he'd used the spine of a book to draw the lines. It had been a slow process but he was happy that the lines were straight and evenly spaced. He tried to ignore the fact that all the boxes were empty and instead focused on the chalk, turning it over in his hands.

 _'Thank you, erm…?' 'Kent.' 'Thank you, Kent.'_

The exchanged played a little in his mind. He should have known the man's name. He should have remembered it from the conversation with Miles. He'd remembered stupid details (loyal, hard-working, and diligent), he'd even remembered the man's bloody coffee order (crap-puccino … cappuccino, _cap_ puccino), but his name had slipped away like a shadow at sunrise.

He repeated it like a mantra in his head for a moment determined that he wouldn't forget it again. He had a strong, and sickening feeling that DC Kent might be the only one in the office willing to give him the time of day … or even a stick of bloody chalk.

Much like the whiteboard, his mind was blank (mind tricks to remember Kent's name aside), and he needed to fill his brain with something more practical. He needed help. He needed his Murder Investigation Manual.

::

Kent was left frowning by the appearance of a take-away coffee cup on his desk the next morning. He was first in, like always, and no one, _no one_ , ever got him a coffee … not a proper coffee, from a barista. Sanders got that watered down crap for a corner shop occasionally, but usually as part of an elaborate, not-quite-hilarious prank. ('Sanders, why is there a crucifix in my coffee?' 'It's a cappuccino, mate.' 'What?' 'Done some research, ain't I? Cappuccino is named as such after the Capuchin Frias; catholic coffee.' And smugly, 'you're welcome.') Kent sniffed at the drink suspiciously.

'I find it's more effective if you drink it,' Chandler's voice took him surprise and he jumped violently spilling the liquid all around the lid. 'Sorry,' Chandler apologised as Kent turned to look at him. 'I didn't mean to startle you.'

'Sir, did you get this?'

'Just a small thank-you,' Chandler nodded, 'for the chalk.'

Now, faced with confused brown eyes, Chandler doubted his actions. Was this too familiar? There'd been nothing in any of his courses about how to appropriately interact with his team.

'There was no need,' Kent whispered. He seemed kind of overwhelmed, which was probably why Chandler heard himself say:

'It's just coffee. Cappuccino actually, DS Miles said that was your drink of choice so….' He trailed not really sure how to finished the sentence without sounding like a stalker.

'Thanks, boss,' Kent grinned; teeth on show, small wrinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes giving away his true age (not old, but perhaps not quite as young as he first appeared). The smile alone was worth the £3.20 that the thieving, artisan barista had charged him. In fact, he thought a friendly face in this hostile environment would be worth a thousand cappuccinos, but if he'd said that, Kent might have (quite rightly) lodged some kind of lawsuit against him, so instead he said:

'I'm just glad you're on time. I was worried it was going to go cold.' And before the nature of this relationship could be questioned, he focused on the task at hand: 'Can you follow up with forensics? I want to know what they've found; it'll be important.'

'Yes, Sir.'

* * *

 _ **Set after Chandler's outburst about office (and personal) hygiene … and ties.**_

Kent had overheard the conversation. He'd listened to Sanders' theory ('must be gay'), but the shared idea around the office that cleanliness has a direct link with sexuality was totally unfounded and ridiculous. Kent would know better than the rest of these idiots, but he couldn't voice it. They couldn't know about him. They just weren't the kind of men who'd understand something like that. Jesus, they were casting all kind of ludicrous suggestions about Chandler just because the man liked to wash his hands before eating. Imagine what they'd say if Kent casually mentioned that the bloke sitting alone in the corner of the pub was just his type, or that his fascination with DI Chandler might not be strictly professional.

'What about you, Kent?' McCormack asked, munching his way through a third bag of crisps. The main topic of this evening's trip to the pub had been about which offensive ties they were going to turn up wearing the next day. Whilst he hadn't exactly been tuned in for a while – the bloke in the corner of the pub really _was_ just his type - he guessed that they wouldn't have strayed far from the debate.

'I don't really have any funny ties,' he shrugged, sipping on his pint.

''course you don't,' Fitz shook his head. 'You'd need a sense of humour first.'

'Oi.' Sanders clearly thought that was overstepping the mark. 'Don't you worry, kid. You can borrow one of mine. Now,' he slung his arm around Kent's shoulders (he stank of deodorant thanks to his little joke of spraying himself every time the boss was in his vicinity), 'I've got two options: one rather fetching yellow number that says "World's Greatest Lover" or a black one with "FBI" on it.' And just so there could be no confusion, Sanders removed his arm from Kent's neck to mime the figure of a rather voluptuous woman and explained that the initials stood for: 'Female Body Inspector.'

'I don't think that's Kent's thing, is it son?' Miles said.

'What?' Kent panicked. Had he looked at the man in the corner for too long? Had his stolen looks towards the DI been a little too longing?

'Novelty ties,' Miles clarified, but the glint in his eye suggested that that wasn't quite what he'd meant. 'Not your thing.'

'Not really, Skip.'

'Well, I'll bring one for you just in case,' Sanders insisted, though Kent already knew which tie he would wear; a black one with silver crosses (or they might have been diamonds) which complimented his grey shirt nicely. Still, he thanked Sanders for the gesture.

::

'Ponce,' had been Sanders' first reaction when he spotted the tie the next day. His second reaction was: 'You're no fun, has anyone told you that?'

'It's a place of work, and it's a murder enquiry; it's not supposed to be fun.'

'Christ, you're starting to sound like him now.'

Kent knew Sanders' words were supposed to be an insult but really, they just felt like a compliment.

::

 _ **Set immediately after Chandler tells them to remove their novelty ties.**_

Strictly speaking, Chandler knew he was favouring DC Kent. It was easily done. If he wanted to hand out a job and hear "Yes, Sir" instead of the beginnings of a difficult debate, he gave the job to Kent. Forensics, leads about the Wilkes Street fire, anything else that might crop up - Kent, Kent, Kent. Besides, it was just nice to see someone taking notes as he spoke rather that wasting all their energy on showing off their ridiculous ties, though perhaps Kent wasn't showing off because his tie wasn't ridiculous? He, at least, seemed to be taking this situation seriously.

It was possible that Kent's dedication and willingness to follow instructions was the only thing stopping Chandler from drowning in this mess he found himself in.

'Er, sir,' the knock was timid, as was the interruption. He didn't need to look up to know who it was. Most of his team just bowled in like they owned the place.

'Kent,' he allowed himself to smile at the DC. 'You haven't found something out about that fire already, have you? That was quick.'

'Oh, no Sir. Sorry. I was actually wondering if….' The young man glanced over his shoulder towards Sanders, who was nodding profusely and gesturing to his own tie-less collar. 'Well, as no one else in the office is wearing their ties, Sir, I was wondering if it would be okay t-'

'Take it off,' Chandler beat him to the punchline. 'I was just trying to make a point and it was thrown in my face … as usual.'

Kent looked a little lost at that statement, like he didn't know what to do with it, which was understandable. He'd only asked to remove his tie and now he was being bitched at. Still, Kent's response surprised Chandler.

'They'll come round, Sir,' Kent promised in a low whisper. 'Just give them time.'

'We'll see,' he sighed.

It was at that moment that Miles called Kent away to the records room to help the team search through the files for an assault involving thirty-nine stab wounds. Chandler had half a mind to remind Miles that Kent had his own line of enquiry to follow but Chandler had faith that, somehow, Kent would find time to complete all his assigned tasks.

He smiled after the youngest member of the team. It was difficult not to be impressed by him.

* * *

 _ **Set immediately following the scene where McCormack finds the file on Emma Jones' attack.**_

'The boss was right, Skip.' Kent heard the words come out of his mouth before he'd had chance to really run them by any kind of internal censoring mechanism. Now that they were out in the open, he heard the errors: calling Chandler "the boss", daring to sound excited about an idea he'd hard. In a lot of ways, Kent was lucky that the only repercussion of his misplaced enthusiasm was Skip's scornful:

'Yeah, alright. Don't get your panties in a twist over your husband's amazing detective abilities just yet.' Then he turned to the Scotsman, 'you should present this to His Highness, McCormack. It's your find.'

'Let the kid do it,' McCormack suggested, pushing the file towards Kent. 'I've still not been forgiven for the "I Only Fire Blanks" tie yet.'

* * *

 _ **Set in and around Kent and Chandler's trip to the hospital to find out about Emma Jones' case.**_

Chandler had done it again! Once again, it had been too easy. Kent had been stood ahead of him, delivering the haunting news of an Emma Jones. He'd been asking questions about possible links, he'd show a genuine interest in Chandler's theory, and it was hard to ignore that he was the singular ray of positivity in a dark storm of scorn and distrust. Now, they were in a car together, Kent taking up what should have been Miles' seat and filling what would have been silence with nonsense and babble.

'What made you think of this thirty-nine stab assault, Sir?' Kent was asking. He was fidgeting endlessly in his seat; it should have been annoying but it wasn't.

'Just a hunch.'

'Based on the Jack the Ripper copycat theory, Sir?'

'Mmm.'

'Do you think this proves the theory then, Sir?'

'I don't know, perhaps.' He was sure he'd seen that road sign before. He'd lived in London all his life, but this was not a familiar part of town. 'Do you know where we are, Kent?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'And you know the way to the hospital from here?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'Well, I don't.'

'Oh, sorry, Sir, turn right just up here.'

'Right, and you don't have to say "sir" all the time, this isn't actually school … as much as I feel like a substitute teacher trying to control a bunch of class clowns.'

'Maybe that's the problem though, Sir.' Chandler winced at the title (it was overkill now) but he just focused on the instruction, 'left here,' and tried to take heed of the surprisingly sage advice offered to him: 'If you stopped trying to be the teacher, and just became part of the class they might take to you better.'

'I can do that, Kent. I'm heading up this investigation. It's my neck on the line if it goes wrong; not Fitzgerald's, not McCormack's, not Sanders', not yours, not even Miles'. Mine. I have a lot at stake here.'

'I know, Sir. There's a vicious killer with one attempted murder, and another murder under his belt. He has to be stopped before he can hurt anyone else … sir.'

Chandler felt immediately guilty. He hadn't even been thinking about the victims, he'd been talking about his own career, his own chance at a fast-track advancement through the ranks. The silence might have become awkward if Kent wasn't still standing in as satnav:

'Third exit here, sir.'

'Thank you,' he murmured, his mind wandering to consider the man next to him. Kent was young, bright, hard-working and conscientious. He had just as much right (more right some might argue) to be fast-tracked through the ranks as Chandler did and what was the difference between them really? A few courses and friends in high-places thanks to a family precedent. Chandler opened his mouth to ask what Kent's parents did for a living when Kent said:

'Here it is, Sir, on the left. You'd be better off parking on one of the side streets though. You usually have to queue for ages to get a space in the hospital carpark.'

'Mm, yes, good idea.'

::

Kent could hear himself babbling and even though DI Chandler had told him he didn't have to say "sir" quite so much, he could still hear the title slipping from his lips at the end of every sentence. Chandler wasn't even responding now. He was focused, determined to follow his lead, his idea and all Kent could find to say was: " _ **He doesn't look well**_ _"_ and " _ **I hate hospitals**_ _",_ and perhaps most inanely, " _ **What do you think's wrong with him, sir**_ _?"_

::

' **Why would someone want to copy a hundred year old murder**?' Kent mused as they walked away from Dr. Cohen.

'That is the question we're trying to answer,' Chandler hummed disapprovingly. The boss seemed distracted; this trip probably hadn't gained him as much as he'd wanted. Yes, there was the confirmation that the Emma Jones attack and murder 100 years ago were similar but they hadn't been able to talk to the victim. There were no new leads unless…

'Psst, officer,' the nurse at reception gestured him over.

'It's detective actually.' He'd worked hard for his title; he wasn't about to let some woman with an obvious crush on the DI do him a disservice.

'Whatever. You were with that Inspector, weren't you? Tall one, handsome.'

'Yeees,' Kent drawled suspiciously, squinting at the woman as she scribbled on the back of a self-referral form.

'Here,' she smiled, thrusting the note into his hand. 'Tell him to call me.'

Kent said nothing, he just nodded with a small forced smile.

'Kent,' Chandler's voice came down the corridor. He'd strode ahead to wash his hands (something about hospital-quality hand soap) but he was impatiently tapping his foot by the time Kent caught up. 'Come on. What's keeping you?'

'The lady at reception, Sir, she wanted me to give you this.'

'What is it?' Chandler asked, making no move to take it.

'Her number, I think, Sir.'

'Does she have some information on the case?'

'I don't think so.'

'Then why would she possibly want me to have that?'

'Maybe she's hoping for a date,' Kent suggested. For a detective, Chandler was being completely clueless.

'Oh,' Chandler slowed his walking pace slightly. Then, in one fluid movement, he took the note from Kent's grasp and dropped it into the bin. 'There's no time for that. No distractions; we need to be completely focused?'

'No distractions,' Kent repeated. He was trying very hard not to grin at the way the number had been disregarded. Something in him wanted to crack open a bottle of champagne and toast the moment, but instead he asked something about whether the boss wanted him to keep track of Emma Jones' progress and set-up an interview when she overcame the coma.

'Good idea,' Chandler agreed. 'Do that.'

::

"No distractions." Chandler shook his head at the idiotic nature of the comment. Whilst it was true he didn't need any distractions whilst he worked on this case, he was more than aware that the others in the team (Fitz, McCormack, Miles) all juggled work and family with very little bother. The truth was, if Chandler was going to be distracted by anyone it wouldn't be a bold, red-headed nurse at a hospital reception, it would be the curly-haired, babbling idiot practically bouncing in his passenger seat.

'You know, Sir, you're really onto something with this copycat thing, but does that mean there's another murder? Another,' he seemed to be totting up Ripper murders, 'four murders?' Before admitting: 'my historical murder knowledge isn't very good, Sir. Was it four?'

'I don't know,' Chandler hummed. 'My knowledge isn't very good either, but I know someone whose knowledge is.'

'Who's that then, sir?'

The question was left unanswered, but Kent didn't seem to mind he just let the question die before asking if Chandler needed directions back to the station.

'No, I think I've got it. Just jump in if I'm going wrong.'

Chandler was preoccupied as he drove. He needed to plan for the evening. What would be the best way to catch Buchan? Perhaps he'd be able to find him on his tour? He couldn't help but think that he'd prefer to spend his evening in a pub listening to Kent babble varying degrees of excitable nonsense, but Kent wasn't a Ripperologist; though Chandler felt that – if he'd asked Kent to become one – he'd be met with the familiar "yes, Sir" and the man would give mastering all there is to know about Jack the Ripper a bloody good go. The thought alone made him smile.

'Everything alright, sir?'

'Yes,' he chuckled, earning himself a bemused smile from the man next to him. 'I think it might be.'

* * *

 _ **Chandler had just presented his theory about the copycat to the office. Kent is all doe-eyed and enthused, Sanders seems intrigued, and Miles (along with Fitz and McCormack) is skeptical. Chandler has just suggested that they will keep vigil on the street corner in an attempt to catch the copycat killer in the act.**_

That smile. That nod. That silent vote of confidence written in brown eyes. It had been enough to keep Chandler going this far, but he also appreciated that - for all the stubborn disbelief Miles, Fitz, and McCormack were still fixing him with – Sanders was at least giving the suggestion a chance now too. He suspected a quiet word on Kent's part. He doubted the youngest DC could have any influence over the other three, but Kent and Sanders seemed closer; they were partners after all, and the ultimate odd couple. One highly-educated, enthusiastic, and conscientious, the other barely-educated, lazy, and a joker. Still, they seemed to get on and Chandler was grateful to have another member of the team who wasn't readily dismissing everything he said out of hand.

If he was uncertain if he'd won Sanders over, he needn't have worried. The promise of a stakeout which included overtime and free beers and overtime certainly had him onside.

* * *

 _ **Set in the lead-up to, and in and around the stake out at the end of episode 1.**_

It was quiet in the office. Miles had forcefully mooted the possibility that they should all be let go early due to the overtime they'd be working that night. They'd all left, except Kent who'd stayed until the end of his shift with a shrugged comment of: "It's not overtime if you don't do the actual time."

'I can pick you up.' The suggestion came as much as a surprised to Chandler as it did to Kent. 'Tonight, I mean,' he heard himself clarifying … and then over clarifying: 'I just thought, there's no point everyone driving and I think I'll be going practically past your front door. And you probably shouldn't cycle at night.'

'Why's that?'

It was a valid question. Chandler did not have a valid answer.

'It's dangerous,' he suggested tentatively.

'Right,' Kent agreed, because that's what he did and not because Chandler had made any kind of brilliant point.

'Anyway,' Chandler continued, this time at least he had something decent to say: 'I foolishly promised Sanders I'd pick up a curry on the way and you'll have a better idea of what he'd like.'

'Sanders?' Kent smiled wryly. 'You can pick anything off the menu and he'll be happy.' Then with a hint of glee, he suggested: 'Order him a Phall.'

'Right.' Chandler made a note of the name. 'What about beer? I was thinking we should have some drinks with us … create some authenticity. Do you think cans or bottles?'

'Cans,' Kent said, with the expression of a man holding back a laugh. Then he said: 'Haven't you ever been on the lash before, sir?'

'Not with any great intent, no.' He felt slightly embarrassed at the admission. He'd spent his entire childhood fighting his OCD, fighting his exams, and fighting to become a police officer; he'd never been the sort to drink on a street corner. 'It's not really something I'm comfortable with.'

'No, but you have a friend who persuaded you; a Sanders,' Kent suggested. 'They bring the Fosters, you bring the Phall; they burn the roof of their mouth off trying to prove how manly they are, you enjoy the show and drink the larger.'

'I've never been in a situation even remotely like that,' Chandler felt slightly horrified at just the thought.

'Oh well, sir, there's a first time for everything.'

'So, I'll pick you up?' Chandler confirmed.

'Sure,' Kent nodded.

'And then we'll go to purchase beer and curry en route.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Right … excellent.'

It didn't feel excellent. It felt nerve-wracking and horrible. Chandler had staked his reputation and his career on this hunch if it proved to be wrong, he was done for. He'd never make DCI … he wouldn't even be able to keep his place as a DI. He might make desk sergeant if he was lucky, confined to a desk where Fitz and Miles would delight in asking him to do menial filing and photocopying tasks.

::

Kent was waiting on the pavement when Chandler pulled the car up on his street.

'I didn't want to disturb my flat mates,' he explained, sliding easily into the passenger seat.

'I would have phoned,' Chandler said, aware of the cold smell that was coming off Kent. He must have been waiting a while. It didn't matter that his was an August night; this was London and it was far from warm. 'I'm not in the business of ringing doorbells and disturbing angry flat mates.'

'Nosey,' Kent corrected quickly. 'Turn right at the end of the street. There's a nice little Indian just around the corner.'

'Nosey?' Chandler pressed.

'My flat mates. They're not angry, just nosey. They don't believe I'm working, Sir' he dismissed easily. 'Never done an all-nighter like this before, I guess. Usually, it's an open and shut case all wrapped up in a couple of 9-5 shifts.' He smiled shyly. His jeans and hoody making him seem even younger than he was as he admitted: 'Then of course I couldn't tell them _why_ I suddenly needed to work all night, confidential isn't it? So they've convinced themselves I've got myself a hot date and … well….' He trailed off a little embarrassedly, but Chandler wasn't willing to let him off the hook so easily. He had a theory about Kent, a theory he desperately wanted to be true and – without actually prying – he might actually be able to get the young DC to make the admission he was hoping for.

'Well, what?'

'Well, I don't want them to see you and get the wrong idea. I'd never hear the end of it.'

'Do you go on many dates with men?' he tried to make it sound casual, like a joke, the kind of off-hand thing Miles might say to get a laugh from his team.

'Not really,' Kent laughed the comment off, which told Chandler nothing more than that Kent was open-minded _about_ gay relationships and not whether he was open _to_ them. Chandler found himself glancing across at his DC with meaning. He wanted to say more, delve deeper, but they were already outside the Indian (it really was just around the corner) and Kent was already climbing out of the car.

::

'Ah, yes, Kent, you beauty,' Sanders beamed, when they arrived on the corner of the street Kent holding two bags of Indian takeaway up like a prize and Chandler struggling with two boxes of Fosters. 'I was beginning to think this was some elaborate stitch-up,' Sanders admitted, taking one of the boxes of Fosters and tearing into it like an urban fox. 'I was even walking around looking for Fitz, thought he was bound to be behind leaving muggins here stood on the street corner all night; no take-away, no beer, and no overtime.'

'I assure you, you will be paid overtime,' Chandler promised as he watched Kent crack open his own can of beer before offering one the Chandler. He refused it.

'Wasn't so bothered about the overtime as I was about the Indian,' Sanders shrugged with a degree of good-humoured honesty that Chandler hadn't been privy to previously. 'Now,' he peered into the carrier bag. 'What did you get me, Kent? This better not be a pissing Phall.'

'No, the boss wouldn't let me.'

The younger man still seemed disappointed about that, but he fixed Chandler with a small smile that Chandler found himself returning. It was ridiculous really, he was attempting to flirt at midnight with a man much younger than him who was currently sat eating curry from a foil container and chugging down a Fosters. That shouldn't be an attractive prospect for DI Chandler, but it was. Weirdly, it really was.

The whole night had been a bit odd. Sanders was talking to him like he was a human being and no one had fought him on anything, except to suggest that he needed to blend in a little more. That was probably true. In retrospect, he probably hadn't needed the suit and Kent and Sanders spent quite some time trying to talk him out of the tie. ('No one has ever worn a tie for a night drinking cans on the street, sir.' 'Not unless they've nicked it and they're wearing it round their head'.) He knew he was being ridiculous, but his suit and tie served a personal kind of comfort blanket. It restored a little order when he was forced to spend hours starting at the chaos of talent-less graffiti on brick walls.

As the night drew on, Chandler dreaded to think what the other faction were saying about him, though it might have been a tad more insightful that Sanders' " **when I eat curry, I can smell it one my pits the next day** " or his utter steadfast belief that Buchan was behind the whole thing.

At one point, Chandler returned from a scheduled trip to the restroom find the pair of them playing a child's game.

'Are you playing I-Spy?' he demanded incredulously.

'It's a good detective game,' Sanders insisted. 'If Kent suddenly says "I spy a man with a deerstalker hat carrying a bayonet", then I'll say "murderer" and _you_ can make the arrest.'

'Wonderful,' Chandler deadpanned. Belatedly adding: 'I don't think that's how that game works.'

'We're just passing the time, sir,' Kent said. 'You can join in if you like.' That sentiment earned the younger man a thump on the arm from Sanders and a hissed:

'Are you joking? Join in?'

Chandler didn't feel like there was any need to expand on that, so he went back to watching the street as Sanders spied with his little eye something beginning with "S".

'Street. Streetlamp. Scarf. Socks. Sag aloo. Sky. Skip.'

'Emmerson, you Muppet. Where in the hell do you see Skip?'

Kent just shrugged and continued with more s-words: 'Street? No I said that. Slabs … like in the pavement. Stickers. Shutters. Shoulder. Shoes. Ooo, ooo, ooo,' - Kent clearly thought he had it - 'Sanders.'

'Balls,' the other DC groaned. 'Wish I had picked that, but no.'

A few more increasingly abstract guesses were uttered ("scrawny cat?" "Do you see a scrawny cat? Unless of course you're talking about yourself wahey!") before Sanders finally offered Kent a clue.

'The DI.'

'What?' they both said in unison.

'That's your clue: The DI.'

'Oh,' Kent's face lit-up with the answer. 'Suit.'

But Sanders was not impressed: 'I can't believe you went for _scrawny cat_ before suit.'

'Shut up.'

'Right, your turn.'

'No!' Chandler virtually exploded. 'No more. Please. No more rounds of I-Spy; I can't take it.'

'Sorry, sir,' Kent's apology came immediately and he sensed that Sanders was on the brink of apologising too, except that it was at that moment that a yellow Volkswagen Beetle drove past and Sanders thumped Kent on the shoulder and initiated a game of:

'Yellow car.'

Chandler pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. His team's "ways to pass the time" were only serving to make a long night even longer. He truly believed that he could have whiled away the hours quite quickly if he'd just had Kent to talk to. He might've finally had chance to ask about his family, his schooling background, or why he chose to get around London on bicycle, but instead, he was stuck listening to children's games. The sun took a very, very long time to come up.

::

'Coffee,' Kent suggested. He'd just caught himself nearly asleep on Sander's shoulder for the third time and it was the last straw. If he was going to make it to the end of this shift and to his bed without passing out, he needed some caffeine.

'Good idea,' Sanders agreed, dragging himself out of what looked a lot like sleep, but he maintained was "resting his eyes." 'I'll go. Do you want anything, sir?'

'Huh? Oh, yes, erm … I'll have coffee. No tea. No coffee. I tell you what, pick me something off the menu,' he decided. 'Anything. It doesn't matter.'

Nothing really felt like it mattered now. They'd been there all night, all night, and nothing had happened. There'd been nothing even remotely out of the ordinary. What a waste of time, money, and resources. He was definitely going to be let go after this; his promotion was turning into nothing more than a distant fantasy.

::

'If there's no murder by the time we get back, he's had it,' Sanders stated as Kent pondered the menu. Kent didn't really have a reply for that. He knew Sanders had a point; this whole night had been a wasted venture and Chandler's hunch had got them nowhere. There would be no DI heading this investigation tomorrow morning and they all knew it.

'One black coffee,' Sanders put in the order. 'One Cappuccino and one … what's the DI having?'

Kent shrugged and kept staring at the words on the menu. He was too tired to make the letters focus and too upset about Chandler's fate to really care. Sanders took an executive decision:

'Actually, make that two cappuccinos would you, love? He'll like what you've got, won't he?' Sanders said to Kent as though that was somehow logical. Though it was really no more illogical than what followed: 'Should I ask for soya milk? He's big into all that healthy brain food, isn't he? Does he even drink coffee?'

Kent muttered: 'We probably should have spent more time getting to know him.'

'Ah, you gave him a chance, didn't you?' Sanders ruffled his curls annoyingly. He wasn't four … or a cat. 'It was never gonna work though, was it? Skip and Fitz wanted him gone, and when those two gang up on you, you've had it.'

'I really thought he had something with this copycat idea.'

'I know,' Sanders hummed, handing over the best part of £10 with a quip of: 'I should be arresting ing you, this is daylight robbery,' before focusing on Kent: 'I thought he had something too. Reckon we should know better than to bet against the Serg.'

Kent couldn't help but agree with that. Sergeant Ray Miles was very rarely wrong.

'Here,' Sanders pushed both cappuccinos into Kent's hands. 'I don't want to accidentally sip the DI's drink as we're walking back. I might catch OCD.'

Kent wondered for a moment if it was worth going into all the things that made that statement ridiculous. He decided it wasn't and trudged after his partner.

* * *

 _ **Set after the close of the episode. Chandler still has to drop Kent home.**_

'You okay?' Chandler asked, as he pulled the car up at Kent's door.

'I, er, yeah,' he forced a smile that looked fake and difficult. 'I mean, you were right, Sir.'

'I wish I wasn't,' Chandler sighed. 'I'd have given anything, even my job, to have been as deluded as Miles said.'

'Well, I'm glad it didn't come to that,' Kent mumbled. Tiredness seemed to be shutting down his inhibitions; he didn't even say "sir" that time. Or maybe it was something more than tiredness? 'That was gruesome, wasn't it?' Kent whispered. 'I mean, I've seen a dead body before. A woman with her skull bashed in from a heavy ornament, a man all bloodied after being stabbed with a beer bottle, but that was….'

Chandler understood the trailing off. There were no words to describe the horror this copycat killer was inflicting. Chandler didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to say. Part of him, a small part, thought briefly about reaching out and squeezing Kent's shoulder or thigh as a silent "I understand" but that seemed reckless and inappropriate. As in all situations where his instinct failed him, he resorted to his training and mentioned that Kent could seek out counselling.

The DC scoffed at the idea with a bit of a laugh.

'Imagine that,' he gave a watery smile, tears brimming in his eyes. 'Imagine what the others would say if they thought I needed counselling after a little bit of gore.'

'Kent.' No, what had Sanders called him: 'Emmerson,' he tried the name and Kent glanced at him immediately. It was right then; unusual but nice, it suited him. Chandler wasn't sure where he was going to go next, but Kent cut him off anyway with muffled apologies and fumbled excuses.

'Sorry, sir. I just … I'm tired, that's all and….'

'It's okay,' Chandler reassured him gently. 'I know how this job can get.' And before he thought it through he offered: 'Do you want me to come up with you?'

'Oh.'

For a while, that's all there was, just … "oh". No explanation, no expansion, just "oh" floating between them awkwardly. Eventually, Kent took it upon himself to fill the silence with words, garbled, tired, nonsensical words:

'I mean, I'd like you to but the flat mates and … maybe some other time, unless of course you just meant because I'm crying, in which case you don't need to worry because that's not unnatural for me … when I'm tired I mean, and when it's been a long shift and …. And I think that curry too, that probably didn't agree with me, and maybe I should have gone home when Skip suggested it at lunch time because Sanders seemed alright, didn't he? And you, I mean you still look good, er great, er not tired…. Are you alright to drive?'

The question at the end was the only bit Chandler was really able to make sense of, so he just smiled gently and nodded. And, despite the sun being high in the sky and the birds being in full voice, he still whispered:

'Goodnight DC Kent,' and because that sounded far too formal for something that felt strangely intimate, he changed it to: 'Goodnight, Emmerson.'

Kent did no such omission and left the car with a simple, blushed: 'Night, Sir.'

* * *

 **I'm aware that this isn't the most thriving of fandoms anymore and that this series is over 8 years old but if you're reading this, a review would be lovely.**

 **Thanks muchly!**

 **Sisi x**


	2. Series 1: Episode 2

**Thanks for the positive comments about the first chapter. This second instalment is quite a long one so I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

 _ **Set immediately before episode 1 (continuing to when Chandler arrives at the station following his meeting with Commander Anderson).**_

'DC Kent.' It was the standard way to answer a call, especially a call from the boss.

'Ah, Kent. Could you do me a favour?'

''Course, sir. What is it?'

'I've placed an order at the local organic produce shop. Could you pick it up on your way into the office?'

Kent glanced out the flat's kitchen window at his mode of transport: pushbike. It wasn't exactly top of the list when it comes to transporting deliveries … unless, of course, the deliveries were newspaper.

'Kent? Kent?'

'Er, yes, sir?' He panicked, holding the phone to his ear.

'Can you collect the food or not? I can ask uniform. I know this is probably beneath you.'

'It's not that Sir, it's….' He sighed as he eyeballed the bike again. 'It's fine, Sir. Do you have the address?'

'I'll text it to you.' And as an afterthought, 'Thank you.'

'No problem, sir,' but he was talking to a dial tone.

A couple of bags of shopping on his bike – that wouldn't be too difficult, would it? He'd learn to simultaneously balance the twin disciplines of cycling and holding a coffee whilst manoeuvering the deathly obstacle course that is London's backroads; a few bags over his arms should be child's play.

It was certainly _not_ child's play, but he did manage to arrive at work on time with both he and the food intact. He was even in before the boss, but he spotted the empty trolley that had been wheeled up from the canteen and put two and two together. At first, Kent had simply emptied the bags of salmon sandwiches, fruit, and healthy snacks onto the trolley … but given that the office was quiet and his understanding of Chandler's particular nature, he tidied everything up. It was all ordered in even numbers, nice and easy to arrange in careful pairs.

He'd only been sat at his desk a few minutes when Chandler arrived. He was late, and looked a little flustered but it wasn't Kent's place to question why.

'Kent,' Chandler greeted the only member of his team who'd made it into the office before him. He was over half an hour late he was second in, but tardiness was another problem for another time. Today's problem was nourishment. 'Did you get the food?'

'All set out, Sir.' The young DC nodded to a trolley.

'Excellent.' Chandler threw the comment out offhand. It was a kneejerk reaction, something he'd learned in a book about positive reinforcement, but on eyeing the layout of the food more carefully, he found himself repeating: 'Excellent.' And: 'Did you lay this out?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good job,' he said, fingering one of the granola bars and sliding it just a millimeter to the right. It was amazing what peace something like a little order could bring him. He'd had a pretty hectic morning, but knowing that Kent had taken a few minutes to properly lay out the food had given him a lift. There was almost a spring in his step as he headed towards his office.

'Oh, Kent. Did they charge you?'

'Twenty-quid, sir,' the DC replied. 'Something about a third-party collection fee?'

'Really?'

'No, sir,' the DC beamed. 'Just a joke.'

'Right,' Chandler nodded. He felt a bit flustered by the exchange. It had felt normal, and human, and not as though he was joke's punchline (which was a welcome change from a conversation with Miles or Fitz). He found himself smiling as his eyes slid back to the young DC working doggedly at his desk. Was it wrong to be happy whilst in the centre of a murder enquiry? He knew it was but for this brief moment he didn't care.

Eventually, the rest of the team arrived and – aside from Sanders – had nothing but distain and glares to offer him as a form of greeting. He'd found that he'd almost warmed to Sanders during that stakeout. Perhaps that was why he was so willing to hand over the DVDs when Sanders had shown a disinterest in reading.

::

'Sir?' It was twenty minutes until the end of the day and Kent was knocking on his door.

'Yes, Kent,' he frowned. He'd been searching for clues in archaic files and it was giving him a blistering headache that no amount of Tiger Balm and massaging could lessen. 'What can I do for you?'

'I just wondered if you had another book, Sir.'

'What's wrong with the one I gave you?'

'Nothing, Sir. It's just … well, I've finished it.'

'Already?' He'd purposefully handed Kent one of the longer, denser texts expecting the youngest DC to be only one committed enough to actually get through it. He didn't expect him to finish it in a matter of hours.

'I like reading, Sir,' he shrugged.

'Right, well….' He reached into his draw. There were plenty of books about the ripper yet to be touched; plenty more for Kent to sink his teeth in to. 'Here,' he brandished the next one. 'Though, I did catergorise them. I think this one's a bit less factual and a bit more … alternative. If you keep reading at this pace, you'll end up working through the thesis by the man who genuinely believes Jack is the work of a vampire.'

'I look forward to it, Sir,' he smiled.

Chandler tried not to notice that their fingers brushed as Kent took the book from him, or at least he tried not to think about it. What was more difficult to ignore was Sanders high-pitched mocking when Kent returned to the incident room:

'Please, sir, can I have some more.'

'Shut up,' Kent shot back.

'Leave the kid alone, Sanders,' Miles scolded. 'Just because he _can_ read.'

* * *

 _ **McCormack and Kent are at the hospital trying to get some information about the last time Alice Graves was admitted to hospital.**_

'A soldier,' McCormack said as they walked away down the long corridor. 'What do you think to that then?'

'Just confirms everything the Skip found out,' Kent shrugged, catching the eye of a receptionist he recognised from his last trip to the hospital. He tried to look away, pretend he hadn't noticed, but she wasn't having it and as much as Kent was happy to walk on pretending he couldn't hear the calls of "officer", McCormack was already nudging him and pointing over to her:

'Do you know this woman?'

'No,' Kent huffed, turning as she made a beeline for them.

'Well, she sure knows you,' McCormack grinned, digging his elbow into Kent's ribs. 'I reckon you're in here, son.'

'It's not me she likes,' Kent groaned. 'It's the DI.'

'You're kidding!'

'It's not that unbelievable.'

Kent regretted the words immediately, fearful that he'd shown a little too much of his hand. McCormack didn't seem to notice. He apparently could not get passed the idea that a woman might actually be attracted to the DI.

'Him? All suits and soaps … that's not a real man. Real man's got guts,' McCoramack grabbed his own oversized stomach with a grin. Kent just shook his head and focused on the woman who was just getting into ear shot.

'Hello,' he said curtly. 'Can we help you?'

'I was just wondering if you gave that Inspector my number.'

'The world's gone mad,' McCormack shook his head in disbelief walking away muttering something about meeting him at the car.

'I did,' Kent nodded. That wasn't a lie.

'Do you know what he did with it?'

'No, sorry.' That was a lie.

'Oh, okay, well … not to worry just…. Well,' she smiled, 'you can tell him I'm free tomorrow night so, you know, if he fancies it.'

'He's actually in the middle of quite a serious investigation at the moment. I'm sure he'll ring you if he has time … and wants to.'

'Right.' She looked a little shocked at his tone. That wasn't really a surprise, Kent was a little shocked by his tone too. As true as his statement might have been, and as much as he knew Chandler wouldn't be calling her, it still felt cruel and that wasn't something he was known for.

'Sorry,' he muttered, but it was feeble and worthless now.

'Not a problem. Plenty more fish in the sea.'

* * *

 _ **Set right before Miles gives the team debrief about John Leery. A scene which begins with Kent and Sanders discussing Kent's new suit.**_

The exchange had begun with a wolf whistle and call of:

'Look at you.'

'Like it?' Kent chuckled, doing a bit of a twirl. He felt a bit smug in his new suit. New suit; new man.

'You've been into the posh bit of town for that,' Sanders accused, trying to get at the jacket collar so he could read the label.

'Not really. Get off.' He slapped the man's hands away; they were covered in visible grease from the "breakfast burger" he'd just scoffed down and, whilst the suit might have been in a sale, it wasn't exactly cheap.

'Tailored though,' Sanders insisted. 'Christ, the things you can afford when you don't own a car.'

'It's not because I don't have a car,' Kent scorned. 'It's because I flat share, don't have kids and don't spent money on sneaky Breakfast burgers on the way to work every morning.' He eyed the cardboard box with distain. Kent had always been more into healthy eating than his colleagues but now that the DI had shone a light on the problem, it seemed more pressing than ever.

'Hey, it's not my fault the DI's trying to starve us.' Sanders shrugged like he was some kind of victim. 'You know what they say: man cannot live on apples alone.'

'That's why there are granola bars and sandwiches.'

'Shut up,' Sanders dismissed brutishly, before returning to original conversation: 'Where'd you get the suit?'

Kent told him the name of the shop.

' **That's off the peg**?'

::

The office was weirdly quiet with Miles, Fitz, and McCormack out to arrest Leery. Chandler was weirdly relaxed in his office, Kent felt weirdly calm and Sanders … well, he was just being weird.

Sanders odd little project had started off subtly enough. First, he'd stood marginally closer to the DI when they were milling over some facts about Leery's whereabouts and tracing his possible movements on the nights of the murders. Second, he'd started following Chandler's footsteps every time he walked across the incident room in what looked like a self-created game of "get as close to the boss as possible without him noticing", except Chandler was noticing … every time. The final straw probably came when Sanders jumped up as the boss left his office and said:

'Alright, boss. You look a bit … warm. Take your jacket for you?'

Chandler fixed him with a confused expression and Kent couldn't blame the boss, after all Sanders was acting like a psychopath.

'Are you okay DC Sanders?' Chandler asked, fixing the man with focused, formal stare. He almost looked like he might be about to issue a warning about inappropriate behavior in the workplace, which might have been why Kent jumped quickly to his feet and said:

'He's fine, sir. Just the…' and because he could think of nothing by greasy hands and breakfast burgers, he plumped for '… diet.'

'It's the apples,' Sanders agreed, taking an audible bite of the fruit. 'They make me do strange things.'

Chandler looked between the pair as though he thought they'd both lost the plot, but he let it go. He seemed to be in an uncharacteristically good mood, which probably came from being so close to finally catching his first killer. It wasn't until Chandler was back in his office with the door closed that Kent hissed across the empty room:

'What the hell are you doing?'

'Saville Row,' he said as though that was an explanation and took another bite from his apple. 'How do you know his suit is Saville Row?'

'I'm a good detective,' he shrugged, returning to his work. 'I notice things.'

'I'm a detective!'

'Not a good one,' Kent murmured under his breath and earning himself a smack in the side of the head with an elastic band. For a moment, the office was quiet with just the tapping of computer keys as background noise but the silence felt pregnant and from the corner of his eye, Kent could see Sanders fidgeting like a man with a burning question:

'You're bluffing,' he accused eventually.

'What?'

'The boss … you just plucked a suit make out of thin air. You don't have a clue what the boss wears. You couldn't possibly, unless you actually _are_ shagging him.'

'What!' Kent coughed. He was outraged. No matter his feelings, no matter the stolen glances and the admiration, he hadn't acted on anything. That would be inappropriate, unprofessional and against standard policing practice.

'Just something Fitz said,' Sanders dismissed it easily. He clearly set no personal belief in the theory. 'He reckons the boss is,' he left the word unsaid, 'because he's so worried about hygiene.'

'That's not very telling,' Kent frowned.

'Yeah, but he also eats sushi.' Kent wasn't sure his face could screw up with confusion anymore but that comment had done it. 'And you,' Sanders continued, 'you drink cappuccinos and have that hair.'

Kent just stared at his friend. He wasn't sure how to respond to any of those comments. Should he lie and claim to be straight? Should he point out that neither hygiene, sushi, cappuccinos nor curly hair are a sign of homosexuality? Should he just point out that Fitz is a biggot? But instead, he heard himself say:

'Tea.'

'What?'

'That's how I know what suit he wears. He hangs his jacket over the back of his chair in the office and when I take him a cup of tea I notice the label.'

Kent could almost see the thought process behind Sanders eyes. Saw him leap to his feet and run to the kettle before Sanders had even moved an inch, but they'd worked together for a long while now, and Sanders was predictable.

He even left the boss' office mouthing 'Saville Row' and shooting a double thumbs up in Kent's direction. Idiot.

* * *

 **Set after Chandler invites Buchan to the office to give a speech to the team and debunk the theory about masons.**

Kent had tried his best to listen to Buchan, he really had. He'd hushed the rest of the team when they'd mocked the man. He'd strained his ears to pick out Buchan's words over Fitz and Miles' cruel, hushed jokes. Buchan – for whatever reason – was important to Chandler and if the boss felt like Buchan was a useful source on information, then he probably was. After all, Kent was on his sixth Jack the Ripper book and so far the ripper had been "proven" to be a sailor, a rogue abortionist, a prince, an escaped psychopath, a woman, and a religious vigilante. (The boss hadn't been lying when he'd said the theories were only going to get madder).

Still, Buchan had proven himself to be only semi-useful and the boss had retired to his office to the sound of laughter and jokes.

'It was a good idea, sir,' Kent smiled at him. 'Help us remember what we're doing here.'

'Thank you, Kent, you're very…. Kind.'

::

Chandler had almost said "naïve". In fact, he'd almost said "foolish" but he'd thought better of it. "Kind" was apt enough, Kent was kind. He hadn't sniggered when Buchan had entered the room. On the contrary, he'd offered a smile and a slight nod of encouragement. He'd even been willing to give Buchan's theatrical retelling of the ripper timeline a listen.

He took the job seriously. He took Chandler seriously; took all his theories and madcap ideas seriously. He gave Chandler space to think and speculate without judgement. Kent would be the perfect sounding board for a late night of finding new angles, besides, who wants to spend Friday night alone in a police station?

Chandler opened his office door in time to hear Miles ask:

'Kent, what about you?'

'Sorry, Skip?'

'Get your head out of that book, will you?' Miles growled, nodded to what had to be the fifth, or was it the sixth, Jack the Ripper book that Kent had raced his way through. 'BBQ tonight; 6.30 my place. You coming?'

'Great, thanks.'

Chandler watched the young man nod happily and felt a pang of guilt. Chandler couldn't offer something better than a team BBQ at Miles' house; steaks, beer, and friendly banter. All Chandler had to offer was more reading, dull conversation, and a mug of granular instant coffee.

'Anything I need to bring, Skip?' Kent asked, grabbing his leather jacket from the back of his chair. It didn't match his suit, but very little of Kent matched any other part of him. He was like a mish-mash of everyone in the office. He was a sponge absorbing the best and worst of all of them.

'No, no. My treat,' Miles insisted. He probably missed Sanders mouthing 'playing cards' and Kent's nodded agreement. For Chandler, it seemed that an evening swapping ideas with Buchan would have to satisfy.

'Wives and girlfriends welcome,' Miles announced to the room. 'Kids too if you can keep 'em under control.'

'What about the wives we can't keep under control?' Fitz joked sending the room into bloke-ish guffaws. Perhaps time with Buchan _wasn't_ so bad.

* * *

 _ **Set in and around the BBQ!**_

'What are we playing, ladies?' McCormack asked, introducing himself into the card game.

'We haven't decided yet,' Kent muttered, shooting Sanders a disparaging look as he shuffled the deck for the hundredth time.

'Right,' Sanders huffed. 'We'll get another opinion. John, do you know how to play blackjack?'

'Aye.'

'See,' Kent said. He felt vindicated. 'It _is_ a real game.'

'Will you stop bitching like a couple of girls,' Miles snarled at them. 'I'm trying to cook here.'

'Sorry, Skip,' Kent muttered, but he was still glaring at Sanders as the man asked if any of them knew the game "bullshit".

Of course it was bullshit they ended up playing - well, four of them did. ('Deal you in, Skip?' 'Not this time, son. I'm watching the food.') The skipper did seem a little distant and simultaneously on edge. He'd made one or two snappy remarked that slid a little closer to anger and a little further from humour and he'd made a few odd comments that seemed to have no real purpose: ' _New shoes, Kent?' 'No, Sir, Camden Market special about … three years ago.' / 'New car, Sanders?' 'It's the Mrs'.'_

Now, it appeared to be McCormick's turn:

' **You found your pub in the country yet?** '

* * *

 _ **Set after Fitz's departure**_

The atmosphere was awkward at best. In the absence of the Skip, and with Fitz leaving the bottles behind muttering "this is the thanks I get for doing what's right for the team", McCormack had taken over watching the steaks. Kent and Sanders were still placing cards on the table, but they weren't really playing a game, they were just absent-mindedly throwing cards down to give their hands something to do whilst their brains replayed the events of the past few minutes.

'Is dinner nearly rea- Oh.' Judy Miles looked around at the three somber fingers in her garden before asking: 'Where's Ray?'

'Upstairs,' McCormack suggested. It was a guess, but it was probably a correct one. Skip had just found that his closest ally in the team was a filthy traitor; that was not a betrayal he would swallow easily and upstairs was a kind of sanctuary at parties, a way to separate yourself from the group.

'I just wanted to know when dinner will be ready.'

'I'd say any minute,' McCormack answered, flipping the meat over. The sizzle-hiss it made as the grill scorched the flesh was oddly appropriate for this moment. They were all feeling a little burned by betrayal. Still, Judy had no reason to know that and so she carried on as though this were any other day, and any other BBQ.

'How are you, Emmerson?'

'Fine. Thanks Mrs. Miles.'

'Oh, don't,' Judy flapped away the formalities. 'You'll make me feel about a hundred. Say, did you ever call that nice Robin girl, from the flower shop?'

He hadn't … obviously.

'Oh, that's a shame,' she sighed. 'Still, plenty more fish in the sea for a young, handsome detective, I suppose.'

'Well, yeah, but I'm married' Sanders joked in a weak attempt to inject some normality back into the afternoon's proceedings. It didn't really work, Fitz's departure just sort of hung in the air like a dark cloud that wouldn't lift.

They'd all eaten together. Miles, Judy Miles, Sanders, Kat Sanders, McCormack, Jeanie McCormack … and Kent. As always after a few glasses of wine, and a good meal, someone in the group would fixate on the empty, wife-less space at Kent's side and dream up possible replacements.

'I know a Hannah, school teacher, she's lovely … and single. I could give her your number, Kent.' He kept fobbing their suggestions off, but they just had more single people they knew: Rosie the hairdresser, Milly the IT technician, Laura the shop assistant, Maisie the trainee-accountant, Tory the call centre manager.'

'Aright, Cilla Black,' Miles groaned, when the list had grown to beyond a joke. 'Leave the lad alone. He doesn't need you pressure him into marrying some bird he's never even met.'

'She'd be just your type,' Judy insisted, with the kind of confidence that can only be found at the bottom of a bottle of wine.

'Doubtful,' Skip had muttered low and under his breath. If anyone other than Kent had heard it, they'd chosen ignore it.

Kent made his excuses to leave first. He was on his bike and he didn't want to ride home too late if he could help it.

'Sorry about all that,' Miles gestured vaguely to the party as he showed Kent to the door.

'I don't mind,' Kent shrugged. Or rather, he did mind, but he was used to it by now.

'Just so you know,' Miles said steadily, 'we're an open minded bunch. When you decided you _do_ want to bring someone, we'll welcome them … whoever they are.'

There was a lot to digest in that statement, too much to come up with some kind of brilliant response so he'd just mumbled something vague that might have been "thanks" or possibly "okay" before he said his "goodbye".

In his mind, as he weaved through the London traffic back towards his flat, he couldn't help think that the Skip was wrong. Whatever he knew, or thought he knew, about Kent, bringing a partner wouldn't work. Besides, he didn't have a partner to bring and the only person he was remotely interested in was…. Well, Miles and the team would have to turn more than just a blind eye if Emmerson turned up to a team BBQ hand clasped with Chandler's. Despite knowing it could never happen, Kent found the thought exciting anyway and perhaps fate had intervened because when he returned home, he found he'd missed a text from the DI.

 _Do you know if Miles has caught our leak?_

 _Yes. It was Fitz._

There was a long wait for the response. Emmerson was already changed for bed, his teeth were brushed, and his hair was combed when the reply finally came through.

 _What kind of whisky does he like?_

Taking a chance, Kent replied:

 _I can show you if you like._

 _Tomorrow?_

 _Okay._

 _::_

They'd agreed to meet outside the expensive off-license that Kent had said Miles favoured. Chandler was early and was getting wet for his trouble because summer was just a suggestion in the UK rather than a guarantee. He checked his watch (Kent was a minute from being late) and that, of course, was the time Kent rolled up.

The younger man left his bike chained up and wandered over. The combination of drizzle and a bike helmet had meant Kent's hair was damp and sticking out at odd angles. Chandler almost wanted to reach out and pat it down. Something he wanted to blame on his own peculiarities rather than any kind of affection towards the younger man. Kent looked particularly young in his own clothes: jeans, zip-up hoody, and a pleather jacket.

'Thanks for coming, Kent.'

'That's okay, Sir.' He smiled, all inhibited and nervous. 'I just thought it would be easier. I don't know the name of the whiskey but I know what it looks like. I've seen it at Skip's house enough times.'

'Are people often misjudging, Miles?'

'Something like that,' Kent nodded, as they made their way inside the shop. It was small and packed with more different types of alcohol than a man who'd never strayed far from his choice of few favoured alcoholic beverages could get his head around.

The shop smelt of beer, but it also had an aroma of damp cardboard and perhaps a little of pretense; perhaps someone had spilled an expensive can of rare larger over some cardboard boxes. It was a horrible mix which was making him feeling uneasy and that, coupled with the fact the man behind the counter seemed to be staring at them suspiciously, made his stomach clench like _he_ was a criminal.

'This way,' Kent called, gesturing Chandler to the back of the shop. 'That's his favourite,' Kent pointed to an expensive bottle, 'but he likes all of these.' He gestured along the shelf of expensive whiskies.

'I bet he does,' Chandler muttered under his breath fingering a few of the bottles so that the labels faced the same way. 'What's not to like about that price tag?'

'Pardon, Sir?'

'Nothing.' And changing the subject: 'How was the BBQ?'

'Uncomfortable,' Kent sighed before expanding into an explanation of the evening's events which had resulted in Fitz' suspension. 'Then, after Fitz had left there was this horrible atmosphere. People were desperate for something to talk about so they just starting asking me why I didn't take a date.'

'This one,' Chandler said, picking the perfect bottle from the shelf. It was a large bottle, expensive, the label was placed to perfection, the words on the cap were positioned in line with the label. If anything it was even better than Miles' favourite. It was a proper apology. He grinned and showed it to Kent with pride.

Kent smiled and nodded back, but the younger man looked a little disheartened. Determined to show that he wasn't ignoring the younger man, he said:

'So why didn't you take one? A date, I mean.'

'No one to take,' he shrugged. 'I think Judy's taken it upon herself to find someone for me.'

'It's nice that she cares.'

'I suppose.' He kicked his shoe into a small threadbare patch in the carpet as they reached the counter. 'It's just like having another mum though. I get enough of those questions from her.'

Chandler smiled and handed the bottle to the shop owner but as he pulled his wallet from his pocket, he heard the man say: 'ID.'

'Sorry?' he chuckled. He was close to 40, he was not used to being asked for ID.

'Not you,' the man frowned, jerking a fat thumb at Kent. 'Him.'

'You think I'm buying alcohol for him?' Chandler asked incredulously.

'Might be,' the man humphed.

'Don't the people who usually do that buy cider … and leave the minor outside?'

'Some people think the law doesn't apply to them,' the man insisted glaring at the youngest man throughout the exchange. It was only then that Chandler noticed Kent was yet to display any ID.

'Kent?' he asked, and the muttered reply was:

'I don't have it with me. I ride a bike.'

Chandler pinched the bridge of his nose and ran his hand down his face exasperatedly. He couldn't believe this. This should have been a relatively simple transaction and now it was turning into a bloody police matter.

'Wait outside,' Chandler told his DC.

'That won't make a difference,' the shop owner was smug. 'If I believe you to be giving that alcohol to a minor, I'm not allowed to sell it to you.'

'Maybe you should call the police about that,' Kent muttered.

'That's the next stage, sunshine.'

Kent's incredulous expression didn't really do justice to the amount of disrespect he'd just been shown, or the ridiculousness of the situation. Chandler placed his palms on the glass counter and tried to regain some kind of control of this situation.

'Look, Mr….' He waited for the shopkeeper to fill in his own name; he declined the invitation, and Chandler stalled. 'Look,' he sighed, beginning again, 'if you call the police they will send the closest member of the metropolitan police force, right?'

'That's right.'

'And, as a valued member of the metropolitan police force, they'll send him!' Chandler exclaimed, before muttering to Kent: 'You better have your badge.'

'Yes, Sir,' he nodded, fumbling in his coat pocket and showing is police ID to the man behind the counter.

In Chandler's opinion, the shop owner hadn't really been sorry enough for his mistake, though perhaps he didn't _really_ have much to be sorry for. He'd thought Kent was under 25, legally he had to ask for ID and it had been them that had been awkward about it. Nevertheless, Chandler still felt angry and uneasy about the event, but perhaps that was sown to something else.

That might have been because he'd just walked into a shop with Kent, allowed himself to appear off-duty and in public with the man and the natural assumption was that he was purchasing alcohol for him. It wasn't exactly the vibe he'd been hoping the pair of them would give off.

'I'd ask you to join me for a drink,' Chandler said as they stood outside the shop near Kent's bike, 'but you haven't got any ID and….'

'It's okay, sir. I've got plans with my flat mates anyway.'

::

Plans with his flat mates? It had been an easy believable lie; one that Chandler accepted without question but it was nonsense. Kent hadn't had any plans, it had just slipped out to ease the awkwardness a little. Ever since the interaction at the till had begun, Kent had found himself sweating uncomfortably. He just wanted to retire home where no one was accusing him of being a 17-year-old who coerced older men into buying him alcohol. He wanted to hide in his own embarrassment for a bit. If the man behind the counter saw Kent as nothing more than a stupid child, what did the boss see him as?

* * *

 **Set immediately after Miles and Chandler have just found Mary's body.**

Had it been seconds? Had it been minutes? Time didn't seem to mean much anymore. His heart was pounding. His stomach was churning. His legs had turned to jelly. This had been it. This had been their chance to catch the ripper and they'd failed; _he'd_ failed.

The sound of running footsteps announced the arrival of Kent, followed by Sanders, and eventually McCormack. There was the same noise when they took in the scene; a half gasp, half sob. And then there was nothing, just silence and quiet sorrow. They all knew that this was a mistake. They all knew that this was a murder that would weigh on their consciences for a long time to come.

Soft footsteps, indicated that someone had moved closer to the body.

'Poor, Mary,' came the lilting Scottish accent to accompany it. 'She never hurt anyone. She was a good sort. This bastard can't get away with any more.'

Something about the words made Chandler snap into character. He was the DI of this investigation. It wasn't his place to crouch silently in a corner chewing his fist. It was his place to lead this investigation.

'Miles,' he squeaked in barely more than a whisper. He coughed to clear his throat and drew himself to his full height. 'Miles,' he started again with more force. 'Can you call Dr. Llewellyn? She needs to examine the body.

'McCormack. Speak to Mary's family, friends. Find out everything; last known movements, who she was meeting, where she was meeting, what she had for tea. I want to know everything.

'Sanders, keep an eye on Buchan. He's just become our lead suspect.'

''Bout bloody time,' Sanders grunted his approval of this order.

'Find out what you can about what happened here and book an interview room first thing in the morning.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Miles, will you lead the interview?'

'My pleasure,' the sergeant snarled with venom.

'Kent,' Chandler turned to the youngest of the team. 'Come with me.'

'Sir,' Kent's obedience knew no bounds and Chandler could hear his familiar quick steps to keep pace as Chandler strode towards his car. He could hear the questions: 'Where are going, sir?' 'What's going on, sir?'

'I'm sorry, Kent,' Chandler whispered when they were both hidden in the relative comfort of his car. 'I didn't want to be alone and … well, I don't want the others to see me when I'm weak.'

'Sir?'

Kent was so doe-eyed and innocent. Despite the fact Chandler was falling apart, losing his grip on the investigation and being mocked by a brutal killer, Kent still fixed him with a look like he'd just been impressed.

'Sir, please. I've got faith in you,' Kent said in a tone that was terrifying in its honesty. 'You _will_ catch this guy … and then everyone else will see what I see.'

'And what's that? What do you see, Kent?'

'I see a good man who tears himself up because he feels the deaths of the victims as acutely as though they were his own family. I see a man who's willing to risk his entire career to do what's right. I see a man who doesn't shy away because something's difficult, or because someone's cruel to him. I see,' Kent seemed to pause, his conviction blurred by sudden uncertainty, 'I see a hero.'

Chandler didn't know why it happened. Perhaps because his emotions were wrecked, perhaps because he was too tired to function properly, perhaps because Kent was looking at him like no one had ever looked at him before and perhaps … perhaps just because – despite everything – it felt right. Whatever the reason, DI Joseph Chandler heard his thoughts (his most private, most secret thoughts) slipping from his lips.

'I'm no hero. I'm hiding in a car close to tears. I'm trying to catch a criminal that seems more akin to a ghost. I'm chasing shadows in the darkness and I'm letting these people, the victims, their families, their friends … I'm letting them all down. And in the middle of all this, I'm looking at you and all I can think about is how much I want to kiss you. That is not a hero.'

'What?' Kent breathed.

Chandler had barely got the words "I'm not a-" out before, Kent had moved across the car, hands tangled in his hair and lips catching his own in soft, sweet embrace. It was merely a second before Kent seemed to catch himself and pull back, but Chandler wouldn't let him. He didn't want him to doubt this and, against all his better judgement (which seemed to have been left somewhere in Miter Square), he reached out a hand to cup the back of his DC's neck and keep him close.

The action was a little tentative, and purposefully gentle (at least he hoped it was), but it was desperate and when he brushed his lips against Kent's that had evoked similarly odd, unfamiliar feelings. Did Kent really want this? Was this just the pinnacle of the man's obedience? Was this the culmination of two desperate men with no idea how to make sense of the world around them? Chandler didn't know how to use words to get the answers so he just firmed the contact and parted his lips slightly.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Kent mirrored him; lips parted, tongue flicking out just briefly to capture the merest taste of him. And then something seemed to click. Kent's hands were on him, scrunched in his hair, stroking the base of his neck and his part in the kiss was more and more confident until Chandler felt as though he'd lost control and allowed himself to be dictated by the younger man.

He kissed like he worked: unpracticed, fervent, and full of enthusiasm. Chandler felt at odds with it. He preferred order and routine; he liked patterns. There was no pattern with Kent, he was everywhere and nowhere and Chandler found it easy to lose himself in the chaos. But this was not the kind of chaos that he wanted to tidy, not the kind of chaos that had him itching for order … it was more like a white noise; a complete wall put between him and the outside world, between him and rational thought, between him and anything he wanted to keep out.

When they pulled apart, Kent was breathless with swollen lips and the merest hint of stubble rash on his upper lip. He looked exhilarated and slightly debaucherous and, just like that, with Chandler's brain offering that one description, his mind was right back with the ripper. Right back into his predicament.

'Sir, are you okay?'

'We're interviewing Buchan in the morning,' he said. The words felt emotionless as he said them. 'I guess we've got a few hours off before then.' He fixed his eyes on the man ahead of him and begged: 'Come with me. I'd rather not be alone right now.'

'Yes, sir,' Kent nodded. Chandler winced a little at the formality. It hadn't been an order for his DC to follow, it had been a request to the man he was quite rapidly (and quite heavily) falling for.

::

They didn't say a lot as they drove to Chandler's flat. They didn't say a lot when they arrived at the flat. There wasn't really a lot to say in the wake of the night's events. Chandler heard himself offer the younger man a cup of tea. Kent turned it down; he turned down the offer of whiskey too, sticking with a glass of water. Chandler wasn't as strong. He needed something to take the edge off his nerves. Nerves about the case, nerves about Kent … it was all emotion and it was making him feel a little sick.

He watched Kent from the kitchen part of his open plan downstairs. Kent was perched awkwardly on the very edge of Chandler's cream sofa. He looked anxious, like he was afraid to touch anything, to move anything out of place. He was wiggling his toes inside his socks; his shoes were left at the door at Chandler's request. He couldn't comprehend the horror of a mark on his cream carpets.

Kent glanced up and gave him a small smile. Chandler returned it but in the absence of anything significant to say, both simply sipped at their drinks. It wasn't that he didn't want Kent here. On the contrary, being here alone, tonight felt like a kind of hell that Chandler didn't want to face, but he was stuck now. He didn't know what Kent expected of him. He didn't know what he expected of himself. If seemed inappropriate to pursue any "feelings" in the wake of such a gruesome murder and crushing disappointment and he didn't want this _thing_ with Kent to be some kind of misjudged sympathy sex to help them both forget for a moment. Kent felt too important to just risk with something as base and emotionless as a one night stand.

'Is everything okay, sir?' Kent's voice the silence.

It was an impossible question to answer. He wasn't okay; he wasn't sure he'd ever be okay again, but he wasn't unhappy. He was certainly pleased Kent was there. In hindsight, he probably should have made those thoughts manifest themselves into words. It would have been a lot better than what he actually said, which was:

'I don't know what to do.'

'Sir?'

'Call me Joe,' he pleaded, taking a medicinal swig of whiskey from his glass and filling it back up. 'You're not here as my subordinate. You're here as an equal, as a … friend,' he insisted moving awkwardly into the living room and leaning against the wall. 'Perhaps more than a friend,' he whispered almost drowning the words in his next sip. 'I don't know.'

'Sir,' and when Chandler made a disgruntled noise, he corrected it to, 'Joe. Maybe,' he sighed heavily like he was suffering under an enormous weight. 'Maybe I shouldn't have come here. You're clearly distressed and….'

'I want you here,' Chandler interrupted. 'I feel less … lonely with you here. I just … I don't want to let you down. I can't, I mean I….' The sentences seemed so clever when they left his brain, but as they reached his lips they'd lost all of their conviction and most of their words. 'I'm a very particular man, Emmerson. I know that there are certain expectations when someone…. I mean, I worry that perhaps I've given you the wrong impression inviting you here.'

'I don't have any expectations,' Kent replied, getting to his feet and closing the gap between them. 'It's been a terrible night. It makes sense that neither of us wants to be alone. We can just keep each other company. It doesn't mean we have to do anything more.'

Downing his drink, Chandler said: 'I want you to stay.'

'Okay.'

Chandler leant in to kiss him again. It was soft and gentle; leading nowhere but promising everything. As they broke apart, Kent found his half-full glass being taken from his hands and Chandler whispered:

'We should try and sleep. It's going to be a long day tomorrow.'

::

Kent looked at himself in the mirror. The man staring back was old. He looked haunted with patchy unwanted stubble, bags under his eyes and a skinny, awkward physique. There was the smallest fluff of hair under his belly button leading temptingly beneath his boxers which he'd barely noticed before but felt self-conscious about it now.

There was a soft knock at the door: Chandler checking that everything was okay.

'I'm fine.'

'There's a spare toothbrush in the top left draw,' he called. 'You're welcome to use it.'

There wasn't just one spare toothbrush, but a spare _five_ toothbrushes secured in plastic bags and lying in perfect lines. Everything in Chandler's house was perfectly set out and this new quirk didn't really surprise him. He took the toothbrush on the right, careful not to disturb the clean lines of the draw, and brushed his teeth carefully, leaving the toothbrush in the rack next to Chandler's. It all felt a bit familiar but it was comfortable and pleasant.

He knew without a doubt that he could be happy here.

When he finally worked up the courage to enter Chandler's room, he found the man curled on the left side of the bed, his valuables lined up on the bedside table. He was still, but his breathing wasn't relaxed and his eyes weren't closed. He started a bit when he spotted Kent.

'Everything okay?'

Kent couldn't speak. Suddenly, it felt like he was in the middle of a surreal dream. He was actually stood in the doorway of Joe Chandler's room, with the man himself half naked in bed and the top of his torso visible over the duvet.

'Emmerson.'

'I'm fine. I'm … fine.'

'Are you going to get in, or are you just planning to stand there all night?'

'I….' He felt himself grin. It was almost like he couldn't hold back the happiness anymore. 'I'm getting in.'

The bed was warm. The sheets were expensive and the duvet was thick. The duvet cover matched the curtains and was offset by the carpet and wallpaper. It was like being in a show home, but with the added warm lived-in feel. He looked over at his bedfellow and found the man looking at him strangely.

'Is everything okay?' Kent asked, suddenly nervous that he was going to be thrown out into the night in nothing but his boxers.

'It's been a long time since anyone has led there.'

'I can sleep on the sofa.'

'That's not what I meant,' Chandler shook his head. 'I just … I thought it would be weird but, it isn't.'

Kent smiled wanton and happy. He felt fingers wrap around his hand and he squeezed them in response and that was all there was: darkness, warmth, comfort and hand-holding, and it was weirdly perfect and very them.

::

Kent had woken to an empty bed and the smell of coffee drifting through the open door. He suspected Chandler hadn't got much sleep. He certainly hadn't been asleep when Kent had drifted off, and he was already up and about now barely four hours later. He wasn't sure how the man was doing it. Kent felt drained, his stomach was pulling into his gut, his brain felt sluggish and malnourished. He needed to sleep, or eat, or fill himself with caffeine. He needed something. He rolled awkwardly out of the bed and padded, flat footed and noisy, to the bathroom. His morning routine wasn't even enough to pull him out of this zombie state, he dressed slowly, taking three stabs at matching up the correct button and button hole on his shirt. Eventually, he managed to resemble something akin to human and made his way downstairs.

'Morning,' Chandler greeted him by jumping to his feet and flicking on the kettle. 'Did you sleep okay?'

'Yes. Did you sleep?'

'I don't know,' Chandler answered honestly. Either way, he looked far better and far less scruffy than Kent had managed, but he wasn't in yesterday's clothes. 'Would you like breakfast? I have Muesli, or I could make you some toast? Do you like butter? There might be some margarine somewhere or….'

'Muesli will be fine,' Kent cut him off. 'I can get it. Where are the bowls?'

Chandler pointed to the cupboard where he could find the bowls and directed him to the cupboard that held breakfast materials, whilst making a coffee to Kent's taste.

'Would you prefer yoghurt or milk?' Chandler asked and in Kent's current mindless state he honestly thought the man was going to place yoghurt in his coffee. It wasn't a massive leap; Joe was stood at the fridge holding the coffee he'd made for Kent. It wasn't until the clarification of: 'on your muesli' that Kent realised the extent to which he needed to wake up.

'I could do with going home before work,' he said when he'd finally sat down to breakfast (milk in his coffee, yoghurt on his muesli). 'I need to grab a suit … and probably a shower.'

'That's okay,' Chandler nodded. 'I can drop you off on my way in. Miles and I will be interviewing Buchan this morning, I was hoping you could go through the CCTV of Miter Square so I'll have uniform leave it on your desk for when you come in.'

'Yes, Sir.' It was a natural reaction in the face of an order from his boss. It didn't matter that he was sat in his boss' kitchen, eating his cereal and drinking his coffee. It didn't matter if it was a slip of the tongue or not; it was enough to make the whole atmosphere turn sour.

'I, erm,' Chandler rose to his feet and placed his dishes in the dish washer. 'I need to wash my face. We'll leave when you're finished.'

Kent just nodded, not trusting himself to open his mouth. Chandler had to walk past him to leave the room and for a moment, he hesitated at Kent's side. Kent thought he might have been considering kissing him, but instead he just squeezed his shoulder and disappeared.

Joe. Joe. Joe. Joe. He'd said it far too often in the car as though overusing it not might erase his error at the breakfast table, might erase that uncomfortable atmosphere that he'd brought on them. It barely worked but, as he was getting out of the car, Chandler reached across and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

'I'm sorry I've been quiet this morning,' he explained. 'I've been thinking about Buchan. I trusted him, brought him into the investigation and now…. Maybe I should have listened to Sanders when he said Buchan looked suspicious.'

'I don't know about Buchan,' Kent replied 'but I do know one thing, and that is that you should never listen to Sanders.' He grinned, and Chandler raised a bit of a smile back.

'Thank you for being so understanding. I'll see you later.'

'Okay.'

'Don't be too long.'

::

Coming home in yesterday's clothes with a giddy smile was always going to garner the attention his flat mates but he had thought he'd be able to fob them off with an excuse about working late. It wasn't exactly an uncommon occurrence recently. But of course, Florian had been looking out of the window when Kent got out of Chandler's Range Rover and asked who had dropped him off.

'My boss,' Emmerson replied nonchalantly.

'He is your taxi ride a lot, yes?' Florian asked raising an eyebrow accusingly. 'Is this normal for England Police Force to give lifts for one another?'

'It's just a lift from a colleague, Flor,' Kent frowned, hoping the man wouldn't look any more deeply into it.

'But why home? Why not to work?'

'Because I've been working hard all night … not like that,' he snapped at Ali, who was muffling her giggles by shoving an entire slice of toast into her mouth, 'and I need a shower and a new suit.'

By the time Kent had finished in the shower and donned himself a new suit, Florian had left for his job at the hospital, but Ali was still there. She painted murals for children's nurseries for a living which meant ad hoc hours, lots of sitting in arm chairs doodling, and enough free time to spend some considerable time nosing into her flat mates' lives.

'Will Sergeant Sexy be picking you up to take you to work?' she asked from behind her sketch book.

'My sergeant is not sexy,' Kent answered truthfully.

'Who is it then? That one that calls here sometimes to take you to the pub?'

'Sanders!' Kent was outraged. 'He's a friend! And he's married!'

'So are lots of people, it doesn't mean you can't sleep with them.'

'It doesn't mean _you_ can't sleep with them,' Kent clarified. 'I, on the other hand, have morals.'

'Well, I suppose that's good as you're a policeman…'

'Detective.'

'…but I have to say, I would get half as much action if I didn't sleep with married guys.'

'You're terrible,' Kent accused, but she shrugged and chewed the end of her pencil.

'I'm not married,' she said, as though that made the situation better. And then as justification, she said, 'besides, the only men I meet in my line of work are new dads; usually married, usually horny because their wives are off sex because of the….' She mimed something grotesque that involved pointing at her crotch and making gestures that Kent didn't want to understand. 'I'm just there to reap the rewards, so to speak.'

Kent pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and ran his hand down his face in exasperation.

'We're not all lucky enough to work in a room of hunky police officers.'

'You should come to office one day,' Kent chuckled, thinking about the disappointment Ali would feel when faced with Miles, Sanders and McCormack. 'None of them are hunks.' (Except one, his brain unhelpfully suggested).

'But one of them is,' she sang like she knew something.

'I'll see you later,' was the only thing Kent could think of as a response. And as he left, he called: 'Try not to shag any married men while I'm gone.'

He shut the door but not before he heard her shout: 'I'm not making any promises.'

* * *

 ** _Kent is checking the CCTV footage and has just updated Chandler on the ripper's movements in Miter Square._**

' **He must have used a vehicle for his getaway. Excellent work.'**

 **'Thank you, sir.'**

Chandler was almost glad that Miles interrupted them then because he'd been pretty sure he was about to kiss Kent. He looked sharp in his three piece suit and he smelt amazing all soaps and aftershave, but it was more than that. Spending the evening with Kent had felt so normal and natural, touching him, kissing him, it all felt like it should be a part of his day and he could barely tear his gaze away from the man now.

The feeling didn't last long. Miles was there to ruin things with his anti-Buchan propaganda that was looking less and less like the mistrusting tales of a suspicious man and more and more like the truth and then of course there was the meeting with Anderson and the other big wigs of the business. Originally set up for him to charm and show-off his exceptional abilities and potential, it was now looming like an inconvenience in the centre of an enormous crime of nationwide interest. He wished he didn't have to go. He wished he could go home alone and lock the world out, or he wished he could be with Kent and allow the younger man to help him forget the world outside.

Anderson would want him to forget, of course, but only to protect his own reputation. It was self-preservation and affectations. The men at this evening's meal wouldn't care about the victims, they barely even cared about justice. All they cared about was the show, the façade of policing and Chandler had believed that was enough once too. Now, faced with the reality of the job, faced with knowing his team, knowing Miles and even finding Kent, the case was far more than just something to distance himself from whilst protecting his own interests. The case was eating at him, keeping him up all night, and tearing at his conscience. He felt a responsibility to the victims and to his team that Anderson and his cronies wouldn't understand. It was the kind of responsibility they only really felt to themselves. Still, there were people that understood – one person in particular.

::

'Hallo,' a man who was not Kent answered the door to his flat. He was taller than Kent and had sandier hair than Kent and his eyes were greener and narrower than Kent's and, if Chandler's ear was correct, he spoke with a German accent. 'Can I help you?'

'I'm looking for Emmerson.'

Chandler ignored the flicker of a smirk that flashed in the corner of the German's mouth and instead accepted his invite to step inside as he yelled for Emmerson to come to the door.

'Sir,' Kent frowned when he emerged from one of the doors off the narrow corridor, stepping aside so the German could push past him. The younger man was still in the suit he'd had on at work. He'd clearly only been home minutes and was still fully in work mode. 'What are you doing here? Has something happened with the case?'

'No,' Chandler smiled, awash with sudden relief. 'I've just come from a meal with Commander Anderson and….' He sighed because why make this more complex than it was: 'I just wanted to see you.'

Kent beamed back, just briefly before becoming distracted by something out of Chandler's view, something in the room whose doorway he still hovered in. Still, Kent asked what had happened at the meal and Chandler had begun to explain. He realised quite quickly that he wasn't getting the man's full attention. At least some of Kent's focus seemed to be conducting a silent argument with the German man.

'Is everything okay?' Chandler asked.

'It's fine,' Kent replied confidently, still sending glares at his housemate. 'Shall we … go to yours?'

'Yes, yes. Okay.'

'Okay,' Kent smiled, just let me grab my coat.

Chandler overheard fragments of a continued argument as Kent disappeared into that room to pick up his coat. It was an argument conducted in low, difficult-to-decipher hisses, but one which culminated in something of a plea from Kent: 'Whatever you think you're seeing here, don't tell Ali. Please.'

'I won't,' the man replied. 'But I want details. Truthful details.'

'Oh, why?' Kent groaned like a child who'd been told to tidy his room.

'Because I'm a-lonely and single, and have to live vicar-ish-ly through my friends.'

'Vicariously,' Kent corrected. And as though trying to avoid the question about spilling "truthful details", Kent said: 'See you later.'

'Or maybe not,' was the sing-song reply.

Kent was still in the process of rolling his eyes when he reappeared in Chandler's view.

'Ready?' Chandler asked. Kent nodded. They'd barely made into the car before Chandler's curiosity got the best of him and he heard himself ask who Aly was.

'My flat mate, one of them, the worst one,' but he said with a special kind of fondness. 'And Florian, that's the one you just met and then there's Rachel. Florian and Rachel work at the hospital but Rachel seems to do twice the hours. She's a doctor though and Florian's just cleaning. He's trying to improve his English when it comes to the technical medical language before he applies to become a nurse….' Kent spoke happily about his flat mates all the way to Chandler's house. Ali seemed crazy, but that was the kind of horrific Big Brother style situation you found yourself in when you chose to go down the path of living in a flat share. It was why Chandler had never opted into it. Even at university, he'd spent a fortune so that he could have his own place.

'Anyway,' Kent finally changed the subject when he was sat in Chandler's sitting room with a bottle of beer. Chandler had bought some on his way to pick the younger man up. 'Your meal with the Commander, I didn't really catch what you were saying before.'

'It was horrible. I barely lasted five minutes,' Chandler sighed. 'I can't believe I ever wanted to be like them. They don't know anything about the real nitty-gritty work of policing.'

'They're not supposed to,' Kent shrugged. 'If they did know, they wouldn't be able to do the job they do. They'd be too close to it to remain detached.'

'I'm not sure I'll ever feel detached from this again,' Chandler sighed, settling into the other end of the sofa. 'I'm not sure I'd ever want to be.'

'But what about your dream of heading up the Met?'

'Maybe I was just kidding myself,' Chandler sighed wistfully, taking a sip of his own beer. 'I can't be like them.'

'Then don't be,' Kent said like it was the easiest thing in the world. 'Maybe you can be the one who changes things. You can be the one who heads the Met who understands what it's like to face these kind of cases. You could be the one to change things.'

Chandler just stared at the man ahead of him. He'd removed his waistcoat and tie by now and the top few buttons of his shirt were undone. As was often the case with Kent, anything but a full suit and tie gave him the appearance of unblemished youthfulness and he certainly harboured child-like optimism. He was a wonderful, unique man and this man, this amazing, incredible man believed in him.

'I will never understand why you have so much faith in me,' Chandler whispered as though the thought became too big to contain.

'You haven't let me down yet.'

Suddenly, the inches between them felt like a great chasmic divide.

'Come here,' Chandler stretched out his arm, inviting Kent to lie against him so that they were cuddled on the sofa. Like this, Chandler could smell Kent, could feel him warm and loving against him and feel the tickle of his wandering fingers as he fastened and unfastened the top button of Chandler's shirt.

::

The TV was on but it didn't really feel like either of them were watching it. If someone had asked Kent what was on, he wasn't sure he'd be able to give them a clear answer. The TV wasn't important, it just provided background noise as the two men held each other. Occasionally, Chandler would lean in and press a kiss into Kent's hair, and Kent returned it once by kissing the open patch of chest he'd discovered behind the open shirt button.

Over the time they'd been lying together, Kent had shuffled a bit so that he was more on top of the older man than not. He'd managed to manoeuver himself so one of his legs was tangled with Chandler's and that most of his torso was covering the older man's. Chandler hadn't told him to stop, so he pushed further. His hand fluttered under the material of his shirt, exploring new uncharted territory undeterred. He pressed more kisses as Chandler's shirt began to open up giving Kent more access to more skin.

'Em,' Chandler hummed, when it finally occurred to him that he was almost shirtless. 'What are you…?'

'Sorry,' Kent sat up sharply. He was blushing a furious shade of red like he'd just been caught stealing. 'I just thought…. I'm sorry. I should never have.'

He was on his feet now scrabbling about in search for his tie and the rest of his clothes. He'd been such an idiot. They were supposed to be taking things slow, they were just sat together on a couch; that was all it had been. Kent had had to push it. Kent had had to get over excited and think that this – whatever the hell this was between them – was leading somewhere.

It was Florian's fault. The idiot had pushed a couple of condoms into his palm before he'd left the flat and it had planted a seed that he hadn't been able to weed out. Now, he was doing anything to avoid looking into those blue eyes. He didn't want to see disgust there, or ridicule. He just wanted to go home and drink a few beers and watch wrestling with Florian because, as much as his flat mate denied it, he loved WWE and, as much as Kent denied it, he didn't mine watching hot guys with their shirts off rubbing up against each other.

'It's not you, you understand that, don't you?' Kent felt his arm become ensnared in Chandler's grip. He wrenched to a halt but he didn't take his eyes off the floor, not until Chandler placed his hand on Kent's cheek and forced his gaze northwards, past his still bare torso, and straight into his eyes. 'It's not that I….' Chandler tried to explain. 'It's just that I don't know if we should. There's still the case, and the victims, and….'

'There's always going to be a case,' Kent interrupted more forcefully than either of them had expected. 'There's always going to be a victim. That's not an excuse. Look,' Kent found his way back to staring at a thread protruding from one of his socks, 'if you don't want to, or if you're not attracted to me, that's okay; I can take it. But please don't use the case as an excuse.'

Before Kent really had chance wriggle free and run into the night just waiting for the shame to kill him, he found himself being forced to look upwards again, but this time the grip on his face was different; less gentle, more desperate. And Kent didn't get chance to see much before Chandler's lips were on his, and Chandler's tongue was pressing gently begging for entry, begging for more. It happened so fast that Kent found his head was spinning. He was only vaguely aware of deft fingers working at the front of his shirt, but he was also aware of the hand on the back of his head, forceful and determined not to let either of them make any more excuses.

It wasn't until Kent found his shirt completely unbuttoned and being pushed from his shoulders, and Chandler sucking lightly at the skin above his collarbone that he realised this wasn't going to stop at light kisses and innocent cuddles. This wasn't going to end in a night led side by side with a little comforting hand-holding, and that revelation was made all the more clear as Chandler broke away for just a second to say:

'Bedroom?'

::

It was something he'd played out a million times in his head but it was even better than he'd imagined. Chandler had been far less unrestrained or clinical than Kent had expected. He made love with a kind of wild abandon that he didn't allow to infiltrate any other part of his life but Kent was not complaining not now as he led, warm, sweaty and sated in the middle of Chandler's bed. The older man was in the shower; he couldn't handle the mess and it had got quite messy … eventually.

The truth was, it had started awkwardly. It had been all unpracticed logistics and endless questioning: "is this okay?", "does this feel good?", "are you alright?" They'd fumbled around like virgins in the dark, trying to find a rhythm that suited both of them. Chandler might have admitted early on that this wasn't something he'd done a lot, but it had been a while for Kent too and his own anxiousness and desperation for everything to be perfect had almost ruined it. He'd been too nervous, too tight, and unable to just give-in to this thing between them for fear that he'd do something wrong and put the older man off.

The second time had been better.

The third had been sublime.

'We're getting better at this,' Chandler had hummed happily as he'd pressed a kiss to Kent's temple.

'Imagine how good we'll be if we keep practicing,' Kent had chuckled in response, stealing another kiss. He didn't think he'd ever tire of being able to do that.

It was only a few minutes later, when Chandler decided that he was completely spent and "too old to be shagging all night", that he'd disappeared to the shower. Cleanliness was always a priority in the older man's world; Kent would be expected to follow and he would. Immediately showering after sex was a relatively small price to pay for the chance to be with Joseph Chandler.

::

They'd travelled to work together the next morning. Things were to frantic with hunting to ripper to mess around with dropping Kent off at his flat so that he could follow in later on his bike. Chandler hoped that no one would notice that Kent was wearing yesterday's suit of that they were both wearing the same brand deodorant or had washed using the same brand of soap but he was too delirious to really care.

Last night hadn't been perfect, far from it, but its imperfections had made it special. Chandler had always found intimacy a challenge and he knew that if Kent was sexually confident it would have made for a difficult pairing. The truth was, they were both pathetic at this, but they were getting through it together and so far, they were doing a bloody good job.

When they actually arrived at the incident room, Kent had gone straight off to continue his work with the CCTV footage and Chandler had gone to his office waiting to be filled in about Buchan's latest interview. It would have taken a particularly beady-eyed person to notice that they walked in together, or to spot the slightly awkward way Kent was moving, or that Chandler was virtually skipping. All the clues were there, but no one was looking closely enough to see them.

* * *

 _ **Kent's just spotted the murderer's van and they're on the way to Mr Maduro**_

This was a lead. This was leading a convoy of cars to a possible murder scene, so, whilst he allowed Kent to squeeze his thigh for a second and his hand to linger just a little longer than normal, their conversation was strictly business. It had to be, for their sake and for the sakes of the victims. If they allowed their relationship (or whatever it was) to cloud their judgement going forward it would be disastrous for everyone.

Besides, Commander Anderson had told him to keep out of trouble, keep his nose clean, and protect himself. He had not told him to get in balls deep with a DC at the earliest convenience. That would ruin his reputation, his career, and his relationship with Anderson in one fell swoop, but worse than that, it would destroy Kent too. His advancing career would be chalked up to a few well-timed sexual favours and everything he'd worked so hard for, his character would be ripped to shreds. It's much easier to scape goat an insignificant DC than a DI tipped to one day head up the Metropolitan Police Force.

For everyone, they had to stay professional in the office and on the job. They had to keep their two relationships completely separate. In the office, they would be Chandler and Kent but at home, in private, they could be Joe and Emmerson.

'Everything alright, Kent?'

'Talk me through everything you've dug up on Madouri.'


	3. Series 1: Episode 3

**_Set just before Miles and Chandler interview Antoni Pricha._**

* * *

The rolled up ball of paper hit Kent on the head and took him so much by surprise that he jolted and spilt his coffee over his trousers.

'Sanders!' he yelled without looking up trying to rub at the coffee spill with his hands. He didn't need to look up; there was only one person in the office that juvenile.

'You coming?' was the reply.

'Where?'

'Interview room. The boss and Skip have brought in Pritchard.'

'Pricha,' Kent corrected, because the details mattered … and because Pritchard sounded more like the name of a Welsh Sheep Farmer than a Kosovan Morgue Man.

'Pricha, Pritchard it all means the same in the end … ripper,' Sanders grinned. 'You coming or what?'

'Yes.'

'Good. Bring snacks. I think this is a popcorn and crisps kind of interview.'

Kent brought whole meal biscuits and fruit because that was all that was available in their food store. Sanders shook his head in sickening disapproval but he still munched his way through half the biscuit packet as they watched the interview through the glass.

Things were very different from the last time they'd all sat there waiting for a confession. That had been Lee's interview; Miles had been leading it, Fitz had stolen Kent's seat, and Sanders had been scoffing a bag of crisps. Now it was Antoni Pricha, Chandler was leading it, Fitz was long gone, and Sanders was scoffing a packet of biscuits. Very different.

The ending was similarly frustrating, however. No confession, no admission, nothing to even hint that he understood what he was being charged with. But despite that, watching Chandler work had been something of a thrill for Kent, and he was oddly cheery when he spoke to McCormack about the importance of witnesses - something McCormack chose to hold against him for the entire car ride to the bank.

* * *

 ** _Set on the way to the bank, when Kent and McCormack go to question a witness about the "man who sent the kidney"._**

'What's wrong with you?' McCormack demanded; eyes-narrowed and suspicious.

'What?'

'You're so … upbeat.'

'You say it like it's a bad thing.'

'It is,' McCormack insisted, indicating right. 'We're up to our eyes in an unsolvable case, about to talk to another boss-eyed dead-end and you're acting like we're on a wee daytrip to the zoo.'

Kent just pulled a disagreeing face and ignored him because what can you really say to someone who's angry at you for being happy? Instead, he fiddled with a fraying thread on the passenger seat cover.

McCormack's car was a mess. The man was so preoccupied with saving up for his "pub in the country" or to pay off some of his mortgage, that his car was left to fall to ruin. Sanders liked to suggest that the old, first generation Ford Taurus was older than Kent. It wasn't, but it was close enough for Sanders (and Miles) to find it funny. The car smelt strange too, like it had been gathering dust, dirt and memories for the past 20 years and the smell had never really dissipated.

It was a million miles from Chandler's brand new, top-of-the-range vehicle with heated seats and built in satnav. Chandler probably wouldn't even be able to bring himself to sit in this car, with the princess toys scattered across the backseats and the lashings of glitter _everywhere._ Chandler was a perfectionist … and he was perfect. His face was perfect, his eyes were perfect, his chest, his stomach, his legs, his….

'What are you grinning at now?' McCormack demanded.

'Shouldn't you be watching the road?' he muttered, blushing at having been caught thinking about the DI and grumpy because McCormack's suspicions were making him behave like a grunting teenager.

'You're distracting me with all your smiling.'

'It's not a crime to smile, you know.'

'Aye, but _you_ don't smile,' the older man accused him. 'You're the brooding, miserable one, who takes everything seriously all the time and now, you're grinning like you…' the remainder of the sentence disappeared and was placed with a drawn out 'Ooooooh' as though McCormack had just had a personal "eureka moment".

' _Oooooh_ ,' he mimicked the Scotsman perfectly, 'what?'

'You've got yourself a wee girl,' he grinned smugly.

'You don't know what you're talking about,' Kent replied coolly, reaching forward and flicking on the radio station. He'd meant it to put a full stop to the conversation, but it didn't work. His aloofness just convinced McCormack that he was right and the rest of the drive was taken up with him demanding to know who the girl was and did he know them; followed by an exhaustive list of "guesses" which included naming every single female officer at the station.

He was more pleased than ever that his colleagues were unaware of his preferences for men, and one man in particular.

* * *

 ** _Set before Buchan retires dramatically from Ripper Tours because_** **someone** ** _had to make sense of why Kent was filming the moment from a car!? I mean he has neither a car nor any pre-explained reason to be there so…. (I've tried my best here.)_**

The office was quiet apart from the rustling of paper from the DI's office. Kent could hear the frantic movements. They'd reached almost as many dead-ends in their investigations as the police in 1888 had and Chandler was clearly desperate to find a clue in the history. He wanted to stop history from repeating itself.

Kent knocked gently on the open door, whispering: 'Sir.'

Chandler didn't look up. He just dug his fingers harder into his temples and stared at an artist's impression of Jack the Ripper from 1888, muttering something low and impossible to decipher under his breath.

'Sir,' Kent tried again, slightly louder.

Chandler still didn't notice as he placed a witness report on top of his pile and stared blankly at that instead.

'Joe!' Kent called.

This time he got the man's attention. He blinked a bit as though coming out of a trance and looked up giving Kent the fragments of a weak smile.

'Sorry,' he mumbled, like someone fresh out of sleep. 'Have you been there long?'

'Long enough,' Kent replied in the same hushed tone. 'I think you should go home now. You're not going to gain anything from staring at old documents.'

'I can't. I'm waiting for a "eureka moment".'

'That will come tomorrow, with fresh eyes.'

Chandler looked down at the mess of papers, photos, and old case files ahead of him.

'Maybe you're right,' he sighed, running his hand down his face. 'I don't even know what time it is.'

'Eight.'

'The ripper tour,' Chandler jumped to his feet sending his chair wheeling a few foot across the floor.

'What?'

'Buchan's ripper tour,' Chandler said, pulling on his jacket. 'I wanted to follow him, see what he's up to, find out if there are any more clues … Buchan is his mentor and he's not contacting him through the website anymore so maybe he'll be at the ripper tour. I need to investigate.'

'I'll go,' Kent said determinedly, pushing the older man in the chest to stop him. 'You need rest. I can follow him and report back.'

'But what if you miss something?'

'What if you do?' Kent replied angrily. He was young, and more junior, but he wasn't bloody incompetent. Still Chandler hadn't slept in about 36 hours so he was willing to let it go. 'And I'll take a camera so you can review the footage,' he suggested because practical solutions were better than domestic rows when it came to getting things done in a case.

'But how are you going to go unnoticed?'

'I'll take your car,' Kent beamed. Just because he didn't _have_ a car didn't mean he couldn't drive one. 'I'll drop you home, and then follow Buchan on his tour. Just, you make sure that when I get back to yours, you've got some food waiting for me.'

Chandler seemed to consider this for a long time. He kept looking over at his desk with its uncharacteristic clutter, then he'd look at Kent, long and possibly longing.

'Alright,' he agreed eventually. And glancing quickly around the office to check they were alone, he pressed his lips briefly to Kent's.

* * *

 ** _DC Kent reports back on what he's seen at the Ripper Tour._**

'In the middle of the tour?' Chandler asked, placing the home cooked paella on the tablemat in front of Kent as he asked the younger man to explain what he'd seen for the fourth time.

'Yes,' Kent sounded exasperated. 'He started spouting all these facts about Annie Chapman's kids. The crowd became restless…'

'Understandable.'

'Exactly,' Kent agreed stabbing his folk through a prawn, 'because all they want to hear about is the murders. And then he just sort of lost the plot,' Kent popped the crustacean into his mouth and chewed. 'He gave this dramatic look and was all "I can't do this anymore",' Kent tried (and probably failed) to do Buchan's melodrama justice. 'And then he walked off. I didn't follow him after that. It's all on camera, if you want to see it.' He swallowed his mouthful and pointed to the plate with his folk saying: 'This is delicious, did you make this?'

'Mm,' Chandler nodded the affirmative. 'It was one of the only things my mother cooked well.'

'Well, it's great,' Kent assured him tucking in to a second mouthful, and a third, and a forth. Chandler could only nibble absent-mindedly at a chunk of chorizo. He didn't end up eating much at all, something Kent commented on when he offered to wash up.

'M'not hungry,' was Chandler's vague response.

He wasn't feeling very chatty either, which was something else Kent commented on in passing, but Chandler barely noticed it. They were on the sofa, the TV was on some mind-numbing rerun of a panel show (something Kent had assured him wouldn't mention the ripper murders), and Chandler was glad to have the younger man led half-next-to him, half-on-top-of him but that didn't mean his mind was really there. He couldn't take his mind off the investigation. There had to be a clue somewhere; a hint at the killer's identity; something … anything.

It was only because Kent had dug his elbow into Chandler's ribs and was staring up at him that Chandler realised the younger man had spoken.

'Sorry?' he invited the sentence to be repeated.

'It wasn't important. You're a million miles away.'

'It's the case,' Chandler sighed. 'I feel like I'm staring right at something, some major clue, but I'm just not seeing it.'

'You'll figure it out,' Kent said with misplaced confidence as he rested his curly head back on Chandler's chest. Chandler was struck by how weird he must look from Kent's current angle; mostly chin, with a little nose and a glimpse of cheek. He was pleased for the thought because for a fleeting moment, he wasn't thinking about Jack or the next victim. He played a little with Kent's hair, trying to lose himself in the feel of him, and the smell of him. It worked for a while, but the case still loomed in his periphery. It was always looming.

He knew Kent had fallen asleep. His breathing was shallow and even and the only movements were his lips as he babbled sleepy nonsense ('quick, the broom's moved; now the man can steal the balloon.'). It was a nightly habit which Chandler had thought would prove annoying, but he actually quite enjoyed the glimpses into the younger man's subconscious. It was apparently a place fraught with danger … if the danger was designed by Warner Brothers.

What _was_ annoying was that Kent had managed to wrap himself around Chandler before falling asleep, meaning he could not leave without waking the younger man. He'd planned to sneak back to the office without a discussion about excessive work hours. Luckily, the younger man was so tired that he only really stirred when Chandler disentangled their limbs and slipped out from the bed. He'd be in trouble later but it didn't matter. He wasn't exactly getting any sleep and if he wasn't sleeping, he might as well be working.

Besides, "Buchan Watch" suddenly seemed like a good idea. He should probably draw up a rota for that.

* * *

 ** _Set in and around the scene when ALL the Jack wannabes are handing themselves in at the station._**

The leads were becoming less and less likely by the minute. Every cape-wearing, top-hat-donning freak in London had emerged from the shadows to confess to the murders and it was wasting time and resources talking to them. They were clearly all hacks but the law stated they had to take _all_ these weirdos seriously.

Chandler was spending less and less time at his home, something Kent had mentioned to him several times. Chandler kept ignoring him and last night he hadn't gone home. It was getting too much and, as this was a work matter, Kent decided to pass his concerns onto Miles.

' **DI seems to be living here at the moment. Do you think he's alright?** '

That had been all it had taken. Within minutes, Miles was virtually dragging Chandler out of the office and away for a break … and hopefully some kind of sustenance. The boss needed it, he was just hours from passing out completely.

They'd been gone seconds when Kent's phone rang. He half expected it to be Chandler giving him an earful about getting Miles involved but it wasn't. It was Sanders.

'Hello.'

'Buchan is the most boring man alive,' Sanders groaned down the line and Kent just smirked. Sanders wasn't exactly the most patient man and staking someone out wasn't really high-thrills. 'Do you know he measures the amount of sugar he puts in his tea using a thimble?'

'No, I didn't know that.'

'No, I didn't know that, didn't want to know it either but now I do. I now know Buchan's weird tea habits. How long do you reckon the boss is gonna have us doing this for?'

'Until we know Buchan's not connected,' Kent shrugged, reading over some of the files that had some back from interview with Mary Bousefields friends.

'I might die of boredom before then. You know when you hear spying, you think James Bond. Reality is, it's following some loser about. He's been at his mother's house for four hours now. Four hours! No middle-aged man should be that close to his mother. It's not natural.'

Kent just chuckled and said: 'Bye, Sanders.'

'Don't you dare hang up you little sh-' and whilst Kent had a fair idea what Sander's had been trying to say, the phone was off before the insult could be completed. He had far too much crap to sort through from the Ripper interviews and the family statements to listen to Sanders moan. He ignored the immediate call back and the five texts with varying degrees of curse words that he apparently was.

::

Kent was at home when the call came. His flat mates were all out and he was enjoying the peace for a change.

'DC Kent,' he said, not checking the caller ID.

'Emmerson,' Chandler's voice was immediately recognisable. 'Can you let me in? I've brought you a present.'

Immediately curious, Emmerson grabbed a key, shoved his feet into some trainers crushing the backs with his heel and jogged down the stairs to the building's front door.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected a gift from Chandler to look like, but it certainly wasn't this. The man was stood, still suited up and in leather gloves, holding a smallish round goldfish bowl with a luminous green plastic rim and stand. The tank was half-full with water, had coloured pebbles across the ground, and swimming amongst the castle and the plastic deep-sea diver was a small black and gold fish.

'What are you…?' Kent chuckled.

'I'll explain in a minute, but I need to put it down first. It's much heavier than it looks.'

Kent stepped aside to let Chandler into the building and followed him up the stairs to Kent's first floor apartment. Chandler almost dropped the fishbowl onto the kitchen counter and began massaging his strained bicep muscles. All Kent could think was that he should have tidied more. There were dirty dishes on the side next to the sink and a knife still just sitting on the counter from where Aly had buttered a slice of toast on her way out of the door. Luckily, Chandler didn't seem too concerned; he just set about filling the tank up a little higher.

'So, er, why the fish?' Kent asked, when Chandler was happy with the water level.

'Something Miles' said,' he smiled, reaching out a hand towards Kent and pulling him in to a half hug. 'He said that he takes his mind off work by feeding his fish.'

'Yes, but he's got carp … in a pond. Not a goldfish … in a bowl.'

'It's the same thing really,' Chandler dismissed. 'Besides, I don't want you crying in restrooms and carparks anymore.'

Kent felt the blood drain from his cheeks. 'Who told you about that?'

'Miles.'

'Skip knows?'

'Apparently they all do.' Kent must have looked as horrified and sickened as he felt, because Chandler just pulled him against his chest with a low chuckle. 'No one holds it against you, we all understand but now you have another option.' He gestured grandly towards his gift as though he was presenting an expensive therapist rather than a fairground prize but Kent still smiled, because it was a gift, and it was for him from Chandler … and that was special.

'It's great,' Kent said honestly.

'What are you going to call him?'

'Well,' Kent looked more carefully at the fish as it swam about carefree, 'he's got quite bulgy eyes so … Buchan?'

Chandler laughed a little at the suggestion and it was a warm, happy sound that Kent hadn't heard for a while. It wasn't a long laugh, it didn't even have much conviction behind it, but it was better than nothing and it proved that whatever Miles had said had worked.

'Can you stay for a beer?' Kent asked, moving to the fridge automatically.

'Yes. I'd like to talk to you about tomorrow actually: Miles' party.'

'Riight,' Kent drawled taking to beers from the fridge and uncapping both before handing one to Chandler.

'Well … I've been thinking about what you said … about the BBQ.'

'What about it?' It was clear from the way Chandler was turning the bottle in his hand that he wasn't prepared to offer this information without some deal of encouragement.

'You said that the women, Judy and Jeanie and Sander's wife….'

'Kat.'

'... were asking you about a date.'

'Mm, so?' Kent took a long swing of his beer. He felt like he might need it too.

'Well, I'm worried that if both you and I turn up without a date people might become suspicious.'

'People don't assume the only two single people at a party are going to hook up, Joe,' Kent scorned.

'Yes they do. They always do. Married people like setting single people up.'

'Well, no one there knows I'm gay,' Kent said.

'They don't know I am either!'

'But they _think_ you are,' Kent pointed out.

'No they don't,' Chandler dismissed too confidently. The man had _no_ idea about the rumours that circled the office about him. 'Anyway, this isn't about who thinks what; this is about self-preservation. I shouldn't need to remind you how important it is that this relationship doesn't get found out by anyone, it'll cost us both our careers and our reputations.'

'I know,' Kent felt a little sullen at the lecture. He understood all that but it didn't mean he liked it.

'So, I think we need to make a statement, something bold to throw them off the scent.'

'What do you have planned?'

'I think you should take a girlfriend to Miles' birthday.'

'What? No. If I can't go with you, I'd rather go alone.'

'Don't be so unreasonable.'

'You take one if it's so important to you.'

'I….' Chandler blushed a furious shade of red thinking of his lack of female acquaintances. That probably spoke volumes about inequality in the workplace but that wasn't his battle right now. 'There's no one I could take,' he admitted quietly. Then more confidently: 'It's easy for you, ask one of your flat mates.'

'Florian?' Kent suggested, sarcasm dripping from every germanic vowel.

'Please Emmerson, be serious. This is important.'

There was something about the way his eyes were staring that made Kent back down quicker that he would have liked. There was something about Chandler's eyes, there was something about Chandler's everything, which made him weak at the knees … and weak in the brain. He hadn't felt as foolish around someone since he was in comprehensive school and back then it had been unrequited love and endless rejection. Now it was standing in a kitchen next to the gift of a goldfish … it was certainly a step up and it was that moment of joyful realisation that probably led him to say:

'Okay. I'll ask Rachel.'

::

'Sorry, hun, I'm working the late shift tomorrow night,' Rachel said when Kent broached the subject of Skip's party with her. 'Why don't you ask Aly to go with you? I'm sure she said she had to cancel plans with her sister for tomorrow. She's probably itching for something to do.'

'Yes, but she's Aly,' Kent groaned, 'and these are my colleagues. She's bound to say something controversial. She'll probably get me fired.'

'Don't be so melodramatic,' Rachel laughed. 'But if Aly's not your type, take … who was that nice guy you used to hang around with? Dougie?'

'Dougie!' Kent laughed. Dougie had been a relationship which had lasted about three weeks almost eighteen months ago. He doubted Rachel had even met Dougie, it was just a name she plucked out of the air because Kent had mentioned him a few times during drinking games. Dougie had been the cause of a few well-earned, very-drunken victories in "Never Have I Ever".

'I don't know,' she shrugged, tying up her reddish hair into a long ponytail. 'Has there been anyone significant since Dougie?'

'No,' Kent lied. He didn't want to fuel the flames of his flat mate's suspicions about Chandler. When he looked up again, Rachel had her head cocked slightly to the side like she was trying to see through him into his brain. 'What?' he asked, folding his arms like the action might provide him with some shield from her intrusive gaze.

'I don't know why you're taking anyone at all,' she thought aloud. 'You've never worried about it before.'

'It's different now.'

'How?'

Kent shook his head just slightly. He didn't want to talk about it and, unlike his other flat mates, Rachel would respect that.

'Okay,' she placed her hand on his forearm and squeezed a little. 'Just, I hope you know what you're doing. Secrets, lies, faking things; it's not a good precedent to set for a relationship.' Before he could reply, she'd pressed her lips to his cheek and said: 'I'm running late, I'll see you later okay.'

'Okay.'

And as a parting comment: 'Ask Florian to go with you.'

Kent promised he'd think about it, but he knew that the moment Chandler realised that Kent had brought a male friend to Miles' party would be the moment that their relationship (or whatever this was) ended.

In the end, he was forced – through lack of good friends in the area, and the fact most people he knew already had plans – to ask Aly. She was thrilled by the idea.

'I'd love to. Does this make me your beard? Do I need to play a character? Will I meet Detective Dreamboat that Florian was talking about?'

He said "no" to those three questions as well as all the others she threw at him. It was true that he might have been lying at some point, but it was better than battling inane follow up questions or requests for descriptions about DI Dreamboat.

* * *

 _ **Set just before Buchan burns all his life's work in Miter Square.**_

Kent was on Buchan-watch, which was boring. But Buchan did do something that was out-of-character enough to warrant a call to the boss, which was nice. ('Sir, are you busy?' 'What is it?' 'It's Buchan, sir, he's acting strange.' 'Where are you?' 'Miter Square. He's gathered some journalists. I…. I think you should come and see it for yourself.')

Chandler had offered Buchan a coffee - a thank-you for his efforts.

'Kent, where's the nearest good coffee place?'

'Well, sir, there's one just down….'

'I was rather hoping you'd take us there,' Chandler interrupted and Kent nodded back with a bit of a smile.

It made a refreshing change to be out in public during the day with Chandler, even if it was whilst they were on duty and had Buchan sat with them. Chandler still sat close enough so that their knees could touch under the table and bit of quiet contact was enough for now.

They'd moved onto a conversation about who the original ripper really was. Buchan had theories, buckets of them. He could name every suspect, every single witness but for every one he believed had committed the crime, he had ironclad proof that they hadn't.

'What do you think, Kent?' Chandler had asked sipping on peppermint tea and being incredibly candid with his own thoughts.

'I don't know anymore,' Kent answered honestly. 'I've read so many books and so many theories, it's impossible to split the fact from the fiction. It all just feels like a myth now.'

'Therein lies the problem,' Buchan agreed grandly. 'Too many people allow their imaginations to run wild. The Whitechapel Vampire. Sherlock Holmes vs Jack the Ripper. Jack has ascended into legend, myth, fantasy. And as such, people have added to his story, added nonsense and ludicrousness into the mix. If you want to catch the real Jack, you need to take a step back. Forget the opinions of experts and look at the facts Abberline had. They'll be a clue somewhere … Jack will have slipped up somehow. All serial killers do in the end.

'And I said it earlier,' Buchan continued. 'Your Jack is copying one specific version of Jack – the Jack he believes is the real one. You can't get the next step until you work out who that is.'

Kent could see Chandler's mind whirring. He clearly believed Buchan had a point here and his fingers twitched with a need to get back to his office and pour through the old files again. It was barely even a minute before Chandler had decided to that he and Kent needed to get back.

'No more Buchan-watch then?' Kent asked as they walked towards Chandler's car.

'No, I think he's proved himself enough now.'

* * *

 _ **Set in the lead-up to Miles' birthday party.**_

Aly looked weird. Not weird for the average person, but weird for Aly. She seemed to be treating the Skip's party like a drama-experiment and had taken it upon herself to dress like the wife of a police officer. She's forgone a scarf tied around messy mousy curls for long straight hair. The harem pants and baggy t-shirts had taken a back seat in favour of a simple, sophisticated black dress.

'I wore it to my uncle's funeral,' she said when Kent had questioned where she'd gt something like that from. 'Dreary old bastard. I'd wanted to wear red as a celebration but mum said it was inappropriate.'

'That _is_ inappropriate.'

'He was a wrong 'un,' Aly shrugged. 'Drank too much and beat up his kids. I'm surprised anyone turned up at all, but you know what it's like. People forgive you everything once you're dead.'

'You know later, when we're at skip's house...'

'Mm,' she confirmed.

'… don't say anything like that.'

Aly laughed good-naturedly and linked her arm in his with a comment of: 'Mm, you smell nice.' Before assuring Kent that, 'I will be on my best behaviour, I promise. I don't want to you show up in front of your workmates. Besides, I need to bag myself a hunky copper. The only one I know is a great big gay.'

'They're married,' Kent frowned, 'and before you say it doesn't matter, it does. Don't even think about it okay?' Then for his own amusement, he added: 'I know you'll be tempted, they're exactly your type.'

Kent thought Aly might actually kill him when they arrived at Miles' house and he opened the door to them.

'Ah Kent, come in. Come in. Sanders and McCormack are already here. Who's this?'

'Aly,' his flat mate had smiled shaking his hand politely. She'd been willing to accept that the Sergeant would be an older man, but on being introduced to Sanders and McCormack her face dropped and she muttered in his ear: 'There is not a single piece of eye-candy in this room.'

'Is that all you think about?' he hissed back.

'No,' she shot back. 'But I really thought you fancied one of these guys and well you're hardly likely to be drooling over any of these. That one,' she gestured to McCormack with an over-filled glass of cheap wine, 'literally looks like he might be your dad.'

As much as he'd have liked to pretend he wasn't amused, Kent couldn't stop the smile that flashed across his face, but that didn't stop him trying to assert that "love" was 'all about the personality.'

'Get lost!' Aly scoffed loudly. 'You like to think you're better than me, Emmerson Kent, because you're a police officer and I lack morals, but _you_ are just as shallow as I am. Besides,' she took a long swig of her drink, 'you have a type: tall, blondish, pale-eyed … in short, the polar opposite of you.'

Amazingly, the worst part about bringing Aly to Skip's party actually had nothing to do with the girl herself or her two-bit psycho-analyst routine. The worst part was the enormous effort everyone at the party made to accommodate her. Aly was never left begging for a drink; she wasn't once alone with no one to talk to; she was welcomed with open-arms like she'd always been there and would always be welcome.

Sanders in particular seemingly thrilled by her arrival and he kept telling Kent, and Aly how great they were together.

'You should both come over,' he'd insisted. 'Kat'll cook, we'll make a couple's night of it.'

'Maybe,' Kent had sighed because this conversation made his gut clench and his stomach drop. He felt guilty like he was deceiving the people he called friends. He was deceiving the man he'd worked closest with over the last few years and it hurt.

'I'm really happy for you, Kent. Really,' Sanders grinned. 'Let me get you another beer.'

::

Chandler arrived what he liked to think was fashionably late but was actually just late. He'd lost track of time at the office, then he'd hesitated over the correct outfit for longer that was strictly appropriate and finally, his thoughts had distracted him as he drove causing him to lose his way in the dark. In short, he'd dawdled and now he was last there and the presents had already been opened. No one seemed to mind though, and Miles just seemed pleased he'd turned up at all.

'Let me introduce to everyone,' Miles said. 'You remember Judy,' he gestured to his own wife who Chandler had met briefly during the "kidney-incident". 'And this is Jeanie, McCormack's wife. Kat, Sanders' wife, and Aly … Kent's _friend._ '

Chandler smiled a "hello" to all of them, but his ears tuned into Aly as she leant closer to Kent and he couldn't miss her whisper: 'now _that_ is more like it.' Chandler hoped to god he was the only one who'd heard her.

Miles certainly hadn't, he just showed of his gift of fish-food to the group and they all smiled appreciatively at the thought. All except Sanders who nodding to his own gift, saying:

'It's got to be time for the game now, Skip. The boss is here, we're bound to solve the mystery.'

'What game?' Chandler asked. McCormack passed him the Jack the Ripper board game and Chandler actually smiled. 'Where did you find a thing like that, Sanders?'

'It's Whitechapel, Sir,' he shrugged. 'Things like that are everywhere.'

'Of course,' he nodded. 'Well, a game of this might be good. We might actually be able to solve this mystery.'

'I'll set it up,' Sanders insisted, taking the box and heading into the sitting room. 'Who's playing?' It seemed that only the men had any interest in playing a board game, the women took more interest in a second bottle of Rose which Judy had just taken out of the fridge.

'Kent grab me a beer will you,' Miles asked.

'Me too,' McCormack added and from the sitting room, he heard Sanders' call:

'Me three.'

'What about you, Sir?' Kent asked trying so hard not to act weird around Chandler that he was probably acting weird. 'Beer?'

'There's other stuff too, if you prefer. Cocktails and whatnot, help yourself,' Miles said before listing things that certainly were _not_ cocktails like Gin and Tonic. Chandler didn't know why he was surprised. Miles lived solely on beer and whiskey, anything else was the drink of a pansy. He'd have been happy with a beer, but deciding to make himself a Gin and Tonic gave him a moment or two alone with Kent whilst the women took their bottle of wine into the garden to view Judy's new fire pit and the men went to the sitting room to set up the game.

'You look good,' Chandler mumbled when he was sure they were alone.

'You too,' Kent beamed back. 'You should leave home without a tie more often.'

'I'll certainly consider it,' he chuckled. Then glancing around to be sure they were out of view, he reached across and squeezed Kent's hand in his own mumbling: 'I wish I could kiss you.'

'I wish you could too.'

'I want to.'

'I know.'

'But it wouldn't….'

'It's okay, I understand.'

'Oi,' the Skip's bark from the other room saw them leap apart like warring cats who'd just had a bucket of water thrown over them. 'Are you having a mother's meeting in there? What's taking you so bloody long?'

'Sorry, Skip,' Kent called back picking up the bottles of beer and practically running into the sitting room. Chandler followed at a more leisurely pace and when he arrived in the room, he noticed that they'd left him an arm chair to sit in.

There would have been a time, just a few months ago when he would have been left to sit on the floor, but they had their places now. Chandler in an arm chair, Miles on the sofa. As the most senior of the DC's, McCormack had taken the other one chair and Sander and Kent were cross-legged on the floor, but – most noticeably for Chandler – Kent was at his side. It didn't matter how, or where they were both sat as long as they were sat together.

* * *

 _ **END OF THE PARTY.**_

'Do you need a lift, Kent?' Chandler asked. They'd all been leaving at the same time and Aly had just groaned about how they were going to have get on the tube with all the "yobbos". It wasn't an out of the blue request and it would have been fine if Sanders hadn't also taken it upon himself to offer:

'I'll take you back if you like, it's on our way.'

It was logical that Kent and Aly should go with Sanders. Chandler lived almost in the opposite direction and if he insisted that would only raise red flags. He'd resigned himself to going home alone, when Aly suddenly transformed from Kent's lovely girlfriend with a quirky, artsy job, to Aly: Eco-Warrior and borderline nutter.

'Is that your car?' she asked, pointing at Sander's Toyota.

'Yeah, hop in.'

'In that?' she asked, as though he was holding the door open to a cage of lions rather than an inoffensive hatchback. 'In a Mitsubishi.'

'Toyota,' Kent muttered.

'Toyota,' she corrected immediately. 'You must be joking. Have you heard about the ethical issues surrounding the way they make cars? It's disgusting. I would rather stroll through the streets of Whitechapel and take my chances with the ripper than sit in that thing.' She stared Sanders right in the eye: 'I don't know how you can live with yourself driving a thing like that.'

Sanders just glanced at Kent as though all his initial comments about how happy he was for Kent had just burned up to be replaced by: "Your bird's a loony."

'Well, then,' Sanders frowned raising an eyebrow towards Kent. 'You better both go with the boss than.'

'Better had,' Aly beamed, resting her bonkers, unhinged head on Kent's shoulder.

Kent knew from the way she hummed a silly tune and virtually bounced down the pavement beside him towards Chandler's car that she had everything worked out in her brain but she kept quiet until they were in the relative sound-proof safety of the car and even then she just made stupid vague comments, only ever hinting at what she knew. Until eventually she said:

'So what's your wife like, Joe?'

'He's not married!' Kent exclaimed.

'Isn't he?' Aly questioned.

'You've made it perfectly clear over the last five minutes that you know perfectly well what's going on here,' Chandler snapped. 'Why would you ask if I'm married?'

'Because of the enforced secrecy, because you asked Kent to bring me to the party.'

'That's not because I'm married,' Chandler groaned.

'It's because of work,' Kent explained.

'Yeah, because office romances are illegal now,' Aly scorned, arms crossed playing up to the sulky teenage attitude she'd somehow adopted.

'Sleeping with someone of a different rank is really frowned upon,' Kent muttered in hushed tones as thought Commander Anderson might just appear to reprimand them. 'Joe might face suspension for abuse of power.'

'And Emmerson would lose all respect,' Chandler cut in. 'They'd stop seeing all the great work he'd done, forget about his talents as a detective and make assumptions about trading position for sexual favours.'

'Really?' She directed that question directly to Kent.

'Yes,' he nodded.

'Oh.'

She was silent for the rest of the journey except to occasionally sing along with the radio, but the tension in the car was at breaking point now and Kent was ready to kill her when they finally arrived at the flat and it was time to say goodbye. He needed her to leave now.

Chandler was looking at him with the expression Kent had grown to love; a little flash of passion in his eyes, a slightly flick of his tongue over his lips. He was thinking about kissing him, but Chandler was a private man, and he wouldn't consider such a thing with a loud-mouth like Aly in the back. Luckily, she read the situation too, and said:

'Well, thanks for the lift, Joseph. I better rush on up. Someone has to feed Buchan the Fish.'

'You actually called the fish Buchan?' Chandler asked.

'It's a good name,' Kent shrugged, but the words had barely past his lips when Chandler had leant over and captured them in the sweetest of goodnight kisses.

::

When Kent finally entered the flat, he could hear Aly filling the other two in on the events of the night. He groaned internally and closed his eyes. He didn't need their interrogating and their judgement at his secret relationship, but what he did need was a glass of water, and the only way to the kitchen was through the sitting room.

'You took your time,' Aly grinned. He ignored her and focused on the tap. He was expecting the slight teasing, he'd become used to it since Buchan the Fish had arrived, but he hadn't expected, Aly to say: 'You know, I think I like him and he clearly cares for you.'

'I guess it's just a case of whether you can live with the secrecy,' Rachel reflected.

'Shut up, Rach,' Aly dismissed. 'Secrecy is fun. It adds a little spice to a relationship.'

'For you, maybe, but Em's cut from a different cloth.'

'I'm okay with it,' Kent said confidently and he really, really was. God knew he'd made bigger sacrifices for less deserving people and Chandler was the first man he'd known who got him at every level. It was just great to have someone who understood him so deeply … everything else was just detail.

* * *

 _ **Post the end of the episode.**_

'Skip okay?' Kent asked, as Chandler arrived home. The younger man was lying on the cream couch as though he lived there, which since the case had closed, he sort of did.

'Well he's grumpy, and he's told the doctor three times to discharge him.'

'He's better then?'

'Much,' Chandler nodded going to the fridge and getting himself a bottle of beer. 'Has Anderson called the house?'

'No. Buchan left a message earlier but not Anderson. Why? Is he trying to get hold of you?'

'He's hounding me,' Chandler corrected, lifting Kent's legs up so that he could sit on the sofa, before replacing the younger man's feet in his lap. 'All he wants to do is tell me I've failed and that I'll never make Chief Super.'

'It's been a week since you stopped the last murder,' Kent said, with his predisposition to focus on the positives. 'Maybe it's time to answer his call.'

'I just want one more day,' Chandler pleaded, pushing up the cuff of Kent's trousers and resting his hand on his shin, 'before he ruins my dreams.'

'Okay,' Kent whispered, picking up the remote and flicking through the channels. 'What do you want to watch? There's a Jack the Ripper documentary on the Horror Channel.'

'No!' Chandler said immediately, which made Kent smile.

'Aww, Buchan will be devastated. That's what he called about,' he nodded to the flashing light on the answer phone machine. 'I think he's got a starring role as the resident Ripper Expert. I was making a brew at the time it was difficult to hear.'

'No Jack the Ripper,' Chandler repeated.

'Alright, you choose then.'

Chandler took the remote and flicked steadily through the channels, occasionally stopping on a title which looked promising and reading the write up. He kept glancing to Kent, but the younger man seemed lost in his own train of thought.

With one hand on Kent's leg, the weight of his feet in Chandler's lap acting as a constant comfort as he skimmed the next synopsis, Chandler felt happy. Of course, the peace couldn't last, and eventually Kent's thoughts manifested themselves as a question:

'Are you okay, about remaining a DI I mean?'

Chandler sighed. It was question he'd been thinking about all week and, if he was honest, he'd only in the last moment or two really come to an answer.

'Being Chief Super is something I've wanted since I was five years old.'

'I know,' Kent hummed sympathetically.

'Apart from for a brief time when I was seven, and I decided I wanted to be a train.'

Kent snorted with laughter as Chandler clarified: 'Not a train driver, a train.'

'Well, I'm sorry to tell you this but I think your train days are behind you.'

'I know,' Chandler smiled, putting down the remote and turning to smile at the man next to him. 'What I'm trying to say is … I've based my whole life on an idea I had when Thomas the Tank Engine was my biggest hero. Things change, circumstances change, people change, and you know, I used to think I couldn't possibly be happy until I was sitting behind a desk running the whole of Scotland Yard just like my father,' he smiled at his boyfriend. 'But I was wrong. Because I'm happy right now.'

'Good,' Kent smiled back. 'Good.'

Chandler finally settled on a programme about a gang in New York and Kent wriggled his legs free so that he could swap ends and lean his head against Chandler's chest instead. It was a few minutes before he spoke, but eventually he said:

'I wished I'd known you when you were a kid. I think we'd have got on well.'

'Why's that?'

'Well, you clearly wanted to be Thomas the Tank Engine and I always wanted to be the Fat Controller.'

'Who wants to be the Fat Controller?'

'I used to wear all black and shove a cushion under my shirt to give me a big belly. I'd make Erica - she's my sister - dress up like a train so I could boss her about.'

'You are a very strange man, Emmerson Kent,' Chandler chuckled.

'Ah, you love me really.' It had been meant as off-hand and humourous; it was obvious from the way it had been said, but that particularly four letter word had never been uttered between them before. He could almost feel the burn of Kent's embarrassment through his own shirt, and he didn't want that. So he pushed Kent upwards so that he could kiss him gently and as they broke apart he whispered:

'I think I just might.'

* * *

 **So I've been horrifically (uncomfortably) busy recently, but I'm managed to carve out a little me-time and get back to some good old writing! If there's any interest at all, I'm considering continuing this through out the four seasons? I have some ideas for each season - things that I think will work really well alongside the cannon - but there are some really difficult parts that might require a little encouragement from any possible interested parties.**

 **Anyway, thanks for reading this far and sorry about the enormity of the wait between chapter 2 and 3.**

 **Diolch!**

 **Sisi xx**


End file.
